By John Chizoba Vincent
Tell her she is the moon-
She does not belong to the kitchen
and other rooms like our first lady
Her eye is the satellite of the earth.
Tell her she is the sun-
That corruption can’t cover at noon
Her dimples creates love channels
Where poetry salutes many lips.
Tell her she is a dancer-
Her legs tells thousand stories
Of African tradition and culture
Not of hatred and abuse of mankind.
Tell her she is a singer-
With a tonic voice of nightingale
Not like venom of an envy snake
Her tongue is the sea of hope.
Tell her that her love made me
Wiggle like a drunken prostitute
It made me lost in God’s eyes
My dance awaits her breastfed days.
Tell her I won’t make her eyes wet
She belongs to the throne not kitchen
She shall build another wall of China
Not in her season shall women rejected.
Tell her she a mother not a whore!
Our lives began from her womb like
Nature began from God’s poetry lips
Tell her that I am coming home soon.
A drummer she is among drummers
Many voices echo from her hands
She is not an inexperienced kite that
Made fun of the itself, by carrying the duck.