That my station is in the kitchen
That my niche is by the laundry basket
That my place is in the maternity wards
That am resigned to
That my work is to entertain you
Dote on you like a loyal cur
Never ask questions
That am reconciled to
I cook your food
Warm it for you when you come late
Wake up to serve you
Like a slave intent on catching the master’s eye
You are brusque
Demeaning and very demanding
Aaaah, it’s vegetables, again!
You wonder loudly enough for me to hear
What did you do with the money I gave?
Is it what you used to buy that garb?
Telling him of our women group will not help; nor that fifty bob is no money
I know what to say, tomorrow all get you meat
This irresponsible wife of mine
You wonder how or when you triggered the curse of the gods
Or why else would they give you me, just me
You need a wife, not a leech; you conclude
You smell of cheap liquor
The clothes I break my back scrubbing!
Wait; there is a faint though unmistakably female perfume
I won’t ask
With all the submission mama taught me
Yesterday, I did inquire gently
Bruises on my face and a broken jaw was the closest to an answer I got
Today, am gonna absolve you of all wrongs
Ooh mama
Ooh papa
This is worse than Guantanamo
Were there no other lesser brutes with equal pockets?
Mzee Varaq
(My poems)
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