The women of my village;
they carry the weight of the world on their backs
with feet cracked from years of bare-hearted sacrifice,
back and forth the red hot soil.
Through seasons of toil, joy and harvest,
they rise with the setting of the stars,
greeted by the triumphant cock’s crow.
Wisps of perfume, waft out of dark kitchen windows, swathing my women to suffocation.
The path to the well knows them only too well.
They long for a drop of water
from the pots balanced on their heads.
Never slipping nor spilling,
with hips swaying to the sound of their heartbeats.
Feet quickened through years of child bearing,
Hearts given too early to love.
The men rise at the break of dawn.
Warriors of decades past,
Stripped of their hunting glory, from a land so bare.
The wind no longer whispers to the trees,
but violently carries sands across the village
To distant mountains,
gently slapping bare-chested children
with eager bellies waiting to be filled.
The women of my village.
They scour these mountains
for firewood and wild fruit.
Instead, the mountain juts out of the earth,
its rocks sticking out like bones on a malnourished child,
No longer dangerous or mysterious.
The women of my village.
Author: Olivia Gadabu Ngwira
Olivia Gadabu Ngwira is a multilingual trained print journalist who now works in Sales and Marketing. She was born in Blantyre, Malawi. She moved to Ndola, Zambia, with her family when she was 10. She made the return trip to Malawi eight years later and has been there ever since. She speaks fluent English, Chichewa and Chitumbuka and can understand Zambian Bemba and Nyanja. She loves writing, travelling and reading.
Further Exploration: The Women of My Village
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Course Title: Excellent English Poem: The Women of My Village, Level B1-B2, Incredibly Well-Written© Learn English With Africa, DEcember 2015
