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.

In my travels I spent time with a great yogi.
Once he said to me.

“Become so still you hear the blood flowing
through your veins.”

One night as I sat in quiet,
I seemed on the verge of entering a world inside so vast
I know it is the source of
all of
us.

And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an

altar of love, crushing
a circle in the soft
smooth flowering grass

I've got a sandpaper face,
Burned, calloused hands,
And a stone for a heart.

You speak in velvet,
You write in cursive,
And there's butter in your chest.


You will soften me;
I will harden you.

Fly free unwanted conqueror
I detest you
And your haunting illusion
Midnight visage
Encapsulated in wanton peaks
of redemption
You who scorched my fields
and ignited my fears
Laying waste in a furious
dervish of extrapolated ecstasy

It might have been over
But in what I was sure
was my final moment
Your grip became slack,
my conscious lying spluttering
in the destitute mud
that comprises bewilderment ,
and you showed me mercy
Such bravery in the face of chaos!
And now you gladly accept me
Embrace me in cold arms
Wantonly smiling at the distance
almost, almost imperceptive
But my knowledge trumps mere sense
With the certainty of a madman

Rich as touch,
As the stroke of ink
to the page,
as simple
as beautiful
as your breath to my ear
Darling, speak again.