The distance is not her wahala,
She never feared neither sun nor rain.
The day is about the motive,
The job to be done,
The harvest she anticipates.
Slowly she walks, never faster than a vehicle,
Not even one intention to be,
Winds blow her smiles and age tell a story on her,
Her work yet, or after she still walks,
Her machete sharp, yet a tender heart.
Her sons buy girls blackberry in the city,
Yet phoneless she walks, else she forgot it at home.
I wish you knew her more…
Half harvest still went to her sons.
Love like ‘unchained melody’,
She’ll still walk next year..
If I’d watched unnoticed,
On a ridge, she breaks fast soon before noon calls.
Is she saving the food? I heard it makes her weak!
Men answer warriors! She answers farmer!
A title below a sincere standard,
Yet her fallen breasts were warriors’ favourite.
She told the first stories,
Different from my parents’ repeating playlist,
She made them real like she saw the characters yesterday,
Inspired by love and moon light,
Is there a bulb like the moon?
I want older stories as I’m old now.
I’ll write a poem of endless verses,
Better titled ‘the hero called granny’
She’s mostly lonely in the village homes,
Her husband’s in civil war tales,
Yet single and cold she remained all night.
To groom daddies that soon ran to cities.
The distance is not her wahala,
There’ll surely be an end.
Slowly she walks, never faster than a vehicle,
Girls today would surely be.
Her sons buy girls blackberry in the city,
In her heart she keeps them connected.
If I’d watched unnoticed,
I’d write a poem of endless verses,
Inspired by an old farmer.
A dedication to all African grandmothers
