This is for Angel, a four-year old girl in my village who died because of domestic violence. (Your wounds may have hurt for a while, but now you’re safe in God’s embrace).
Your quiet snore fills
The room as you sleep
Soundly in the crib.
I ask myself,
Did you come from me?
Just before you were born,
Women’s tongues wagged.
Men, over bahalina,*
Spoke of a rooster’s head
Covered with dung.
They talked of a
Small hut, swaying
A young woman, moaning
And a male neighbor
On horseback.
Hush now, don’t cry my son.
Go back to your deep slumber.
These scissors will
Never hurt you.
I only need a strand of your hair
So I will know if my wife went
Inside a hut
Nine months ago.
* A local wine extracted from coconut.
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