LINES AND VERSES

An indignant ewe wrestles A randy ram, a cock rapes A reluctant hen, an old man Gropes a minor's crotch; It's evening on a ghetto lane - Hawkers slowly return to roost. Nightfall is a wakeup call, Darkness a friend to all ; Who knows, it might rapture Tonight, but there's lust in every Vein, every tongue craves a hotter Drink, haven comes here every night. In a darker end is a lone voice, Lewd lyrics crooned, an Angel's Tone. Someday the world will sing Along - not all bad on ghetto lanes. © Jude Ifeme

My mother told me trouble doesn’t know when to choose, so she chooses the wrong time; not because she hates us but because she doesn’t know when to choose. “You are pregnant,” Aunty Misiu had told me.   I was afraid, I thought only mothers got pregnant, “why am I pregnant?” “Because you father has been having sex with you,” she replied. Sex. Was that it? That’s one word I have only heard in hushed voices, but today Aunty Misiu had said it to me like it was the only word worth mentioning. But why did it make her cry? Aunty Misiu never cried, she was strong and every child in Dandata feared her. My name is Rowani, I will soon be thirteen years old. I am about to have my father’s baby. My aunt Doro suggested I’d be married off to Donkali, the shoemaker, but Aunty Misiu had objected. Aunty Misiu said I was too young to be anyone’s wife. My mother said it would kill her to tell the world what my father did to me, but Aunty Misiu said my mother looks dead already. ...

Meena watched her Mama dutifully re-open the large infected wound on her left leg; she carefully scrape open the darkened incrustation with her fingernails and pinch them away bit by bit leaving a fresh lesion sprouting fresh blood and pus. Meena did the best she could to suppress her revulsion. “Wouldn’t you rather lie to eat than steal?” Mama finally responded, her eyes rolled awkwardly to the side to catch Meena’s, but that did not erase the furrows of pain engraved across her forehead. Meena looked away from the crooked look, her heart pounding. She knew it was time; her mother seemed to edging closer to insanity with her desire to attract more pity to herself. Her father was more decent at least; he did not inflict injury on himself. “Besides, we don’t force them to give us alms. Meena, would you not lie to feed your sick Mama?” “But Mama you are not sick, you are the one scraping your wounds every night so it wouldn’t heal.” Her Mama recoiled with a frown. Meena felt...