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WHEN YOU SEE MY MOTHER

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.

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About the author

Bada Yusuf Amoo

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