African mother preparing food for her child

African mother at work

By Ogunyomi Israel Abidemi


From whose abyss

Do stale wine of overripe

Red grape squirt

Sorrowfully unalloyed

By the holy cream,

White as the garment of purity,

Towards the epilogue

Of an unfolding month?

… mother!


From whose spacious sack

Is the helpless fluid

Seeped by father’s loin

Spangled with soft bones

And feeble flesh before

It is forcefully dispensed

From the mouth of an elastic

Tube widens to tear rudely

At its sensitive edges?

… mother!


From whose pipes

Do oceans of milk

Cascade elatedly into

An ever insatiable infant’s

Mouth, whose throat, like

December drought straws

Moisture from the bowel of Earth,

Stands to suck a mountain full

Of milk to meet the valley

At the naked level of its feet?



In whose unwearying arms

Is shivering body swaddled

In calico, with eyes paled pink

By furious fever rocked,

While feet on stand,

At the deepest heart of night,

Dance passionately to the beats

Of an unheard drum?



On whose warm back

Is sobbing fontanelle

Placated with rapper and rocker

After wailing a futile flood

To inherit the teasing night moon,

Standing and staring strongly

Aloft the earth’s dark cloudscape?



At whose flaccid feet

Do palish petals of purple promises

Bow mellowly as converting

Jews at Simon’s speechless sermon,

When decent decades decay unfulfilled

And proud peacocks,

One after the other voluntarily

Gather in cage at the sight of sunset,

After exhausting centuries of noon on

Prodigal purification of frivolous feathers?


About the author

Bada Yusuf Amoo