Mama’s shiny black tan

Peeks from a million pigeon-holes

And the underwears hang indecorously loose

Below the flailing wraparound

Like Saturday underneath Sunday

Mama scoops up bomboy

In a practised grip borne of age

Unto a scabby,meatless ribcage

That has known no respite

From ceaseless childbirths

Bomboy’s buccal cavity

Shapes itself into a theatrical ”o”

In readiness to bellow a protest of frustration;

Mama blocks the threat

With a cake of stale, crusty bresd

Instantly bringing the guffaw

To an enraged face

But the heavens

In their disinterestedness

Are not impressed by the banal trivialities

Of mortals below:

The sky roughened up her face

In a rage of unprovoked tears

Beating Mama to the yam barn.

Mother and son,vultures,

Wet to the skin,

Break the cold night in mirthless,serrated grins.

Rats and roaches, suddenly fugitive,

Scuttle under threadbare mattress,

To share tenancy with lice and bugs,

Keeping mummy and baby company

That Papa took along

Since two full moons

When he fiddled with the tiger’s tail.