Earthenware

A century and half will never make my earthenware gleam, even if it be scoured and forgotten at the bottom of a stream. I am earthenware born daughter of the house taken wife of the man created mother of nations, a burden too big to bear just like this earthenware I balance on my head. This young maiden blossoming in the rays of youth my teeth chalk-white my breasts, mangoes, ready to be plucked in season, red and ripe. Passing by on my way from the stream in skillful balancing acts, the men sniff after the scents of my akwete cloth, like he-goats in heat desire dripping from their eyes to form pools at my feet. They say to me: