The first cockerel crows, while she from the bed rolls.
The stench is thick in the air, his dragon breath of opaque beer.
Early she begins her chores, while her husband stridently snores.
Manly she steps out into the dark night; bucket in hand, no fear.
The night breeze creates a shiver, as she marches down to the river.
Carefully she shuffles avoiding serpents; the rulers of the grass.
She dreads the return of winter, where the frost bites bite deeper.
She’s a super woman her heart not made of glass.
A few drops she spills, as the night lay perfectly still.
She finally returns to the hut at the second cockerel’s crow.
She ignores the chills, and all inner murmurings she kills,
Nursing this baby of a man older than her but won’t grow.
As the new day’s dawning, like a lazy lion he’s yawning,
While his lioness risks her life as she’s sent fourth hunting.
Drool from his mouth keeps falling, as the blankets are calling.
She’s appalled by his heavy breathing, sounds like a pig grunting.
She’s a prisoner of culture that picks on her like a vulture.
At five O’clock she reaches for the axe; fetch the fire wood.
Never voices her views, she says nothing, like a stone sculpture.
The baby will be here soon, three more months until motherhood.
Her culture is a curse, now she’ll have a second baby to nurse.
Her husband being her first toddler had paid the lobola.
She did feel purchased and her treatment utterly adverse.
She’s a robotic super woman, a slave with no man to console her.