They come at night,
Swathed in dark clothes and combat.
Brandishing weapons, sharpened and of might.
I only have my bare hands,
Hardened and senile from years of toiling,
knowing this day would come.
Wishing it never did.
and i hide my seed.
Shelter them from the painful truth,
that this is the world i bore them to.
and i plead for their lives and mine too.
But there is too many a foe.
With only a single evil cause.
Sons of the devil!

And they push me aside.
Part my legs. Not gently as he did,
before he left us behind.
Brutally as though i never lived.
Hold each limb in place with a strong hand.
Hands that stink of young women’s blood,
with tears of old women, salted.
and they rip my clothing,
Beloved sons of the devil!

And they violate my woman,
laugh and mock my curves, depressions and bumps.
I bleed loudly,
my heart screams silently,
Helpless, worthless.
Till i can bleed no more,
Till the tears run dry,
In a land with plenty a reason to cry.
Let them not get my daughters i pray.
Yet they still do and i hide my face,
from their deafening pleas,
Yet i close my heart to their painful cries.

I am ashamed.
For i cannot hold their little hands.
Or prevent them from touching their budding *******,
Sons of the devil!

And I cannot hear them call me mother,
I cannot taste their warm tears,
Caress. My naked body.
and i cannot one last time, smell their innocence.
Before they take away their chastity.
and i am ashamed,
cold, unmoved, dead.
Eyes still open.
Tears streaming.
and i ask in death, as i did in life,
”Sons of Africa, why do you destroy your women?”

©Ado Yiembo.

If i was drunk,
I would sleep and not care if i awoke,
I would buy another bottle,
Then put my nose in your business and meddle.


I would waylay you,
on your way to the loo.
Tell you how beautiful you are,
Perhaps convince you to sit with me here.
I would tell you how awkward it is,
For you to be sitting there alone at ease,
While all the men admired your gait.
I would tell you i like your smile, wait.
Would you ask if am always like this?
I wouldn’t tell you it’s because am drunk.
In fact i would tell you i don’t usually do this.

I know i would see those curves turn up,
I would feel your coldness melt,
You would be glad we met.
If i was drunk, and i know i might look crazy.
I might walk out in a frenzy.
Perhaps to take a ***.
Then come back and join you.
Buy a Margarita for you to sip,
Or a cocktail for you to dip,
Maybe a whiskey for you to down.
Perhaps you would take one of those,
You usually can’t pronounce.
Plain Baron de Vaals, Chamdor, or one from Champs elysees,

Money wouldn’t be a problem,
That’s my emblem.
You would tell me you like me,
They always do.
and i would too.
You would leave for the loo,
and that would be my cue.
Ready to make *****,
Your carefully woven fabric of dignity.
The last thing you would remember,
before you fall into a slumber,
Would be you liked me.
It would be a pity. But final.