She married off to a village chief at age of 14,
But only after being chopped of a ******* in a Maasai
Ritual of FGM, chlitoridectomy or you name it,
For the African elders strictly marry circumcised virgins,
What a ritual so pernicious that my nerves panic with fire.
She gets into a marriage now, Male sided marriage,
Where women and distaff are seen, but not heard whatsoever,
It is her well rounded buttocks, sharply ***** *****
Tight thighs and sweet sensuous moans to be made in bed
That matters most, but not her thoughts not even human feelings.
She starts of her day by morning glory; early morning *** at 5.30,
Then she jumps of her bed, whether sexually satisfied or not,
She goes straight for her broom then begins sweeping,
And scrapping her house, the main house then the kitchen,
No brassiere under her blouse or lingerie under her skirt,
For you never can tell when the chief’s cloud will accumulate,
Into thunderous rain, ready for planting and planting,
She then prepares porridge from millet and sorghum
Or Soya beans, ground nuts and simsim for the children
To take before they leave to school, both her children,
And those sired through out-growing by her husband,
Then she goes at the cow shed to milk her native cows,
Which she milks by dodging ceaseless kicks from the angst ridden cow,
She sings and whistles hymns for the cow to calm and stand balmy,
But coincidentally her last-born baby, three months old boy,
Named after the paternal grandfather wakes up,
Starts crying and croaning for attention, suckling,
She shelves milking aside, and rushes to pick the baby up
Not because of anything but lest its crying may disturb her husband
From sweet morning sleep, it is so bad and punishable.
She picks back the baby, using a shawl as a cot,
Then comes back to the milking shed, to resume her work,
Only to come to a surprise; the calf un-knoosed itself
And has suckled its mother’s udder dry, foam frothing
At the mandibles; she picks two litres of milk to her house
To the kitchen, starts cooking for her husband, two calabashes
Of tea, over spiced with milk and Kericho tea leaves,
As the husband is called to a treat of mellifluous tea,
She jumps at washing her husband’s clothes;
Unmarried brother-in-law passes by, and runs back to his cottage,
Scoops and brings his grimed Jeans Levis Straus trouser,
Also to be washed by his in-law, as the woman belongs
To the clan, to the entire community but not singly to the man
Or the husband who married her, she washes it minus qualm,
Lunch hour knocks, she rushes to the kitchen and cooks,
For the children are about to come from school, they must eat
Eat on time, if not declare this woman a public disgrace
Who can not cook for the community, forget of the children,
Evening comes; she cooks again, her baby still on the back,
The husband complains of the food being not delicious,
Salt was not enough, she did not put in pepper; a stupid woman!
She accepts her mistake and apologizes effusively, or else fire!
She goes to mend the bed for the husband to rest, plus the baby,
She goes out behind the hut to take a bath,
The husband has not yet constructed a bathroom,
For fear that evil neighbours can plant there voodoo
It can **** the husband to forego his wives and cows,
She comes back to her bedroom, when drying herself up,
The husband goes up in libido; he forcefully shoves her to the bed
As the giggles desperately, he jumps on her bust, minus foreplay,
No single kissing, pinching, nor fondling of the breast or even kissing her
On the stunted *******, he penetrates her mechanically, like a block of stone
He introduces himself deep and deeper into her,
Then he releases warm ***** into her, before even she is aroused
He falls asleep like a log of wood, leaving her wide awake on a flame
Flaming ****** desire, burning and torturing her like an abyss.
This rhythm repeats like a circa, on a pattern of regular basis,
She endured and finishes one year without getting pregnant,
The husband gets self-suspicious and irritated, very irked,
As per why the woman on whom his cows were wasted is not receiving
His very powerful seeds, to become pregnant, to carry his son,
He beats her up, ruthless flogging and kicking, kicking her buttocks,
Insulting and lambasting in heavyweight measure, down to ash pit
She apologizes and promises to be pregnant in a fortnight,
To which the man accedes; but…but…but let it be
That you miss to be pregnant, I will chase you away,
I will repossess my cows, I squandered on you
In payment of your pride price; dowry
To marry a reproductively better wife.

Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!