Walking by the pitch of play;
A place where little ones catch fun,
For people to watch and pay,
She watches while her mind is gone,
For she is lost in thought;
Thought of having a child,
Who will forever be her pride?
Like the ‘ yemoja’s water pot.
Then she said: I am fruitless,
I have never put to bed,
And a woman without children,
Is as good as dead
Seeing the assembly of pupils,
Led by their head teacher,
Singing and singing like birds on the hills,
Her heart became sober,
For she remembered her problem;
Her problem of barrenness,
Which makes her grow hopeless
And disturbing her spirit like Indian helm.
Then she said: I am fruitless,
I have never put to bed,
And a woman without children,
Is as good as dead.
She turned in her radio,
Happy Children’s Day dropped from it,
Reminding her of what she can’t let go,
The stigma that makes her unfit,
Then her heart started bleeding,
Flowing down like rivers on her face,
The accumulated tears of all this days,
Can’t just stop flowing.
Then she said: I am fruitless,
I have never put to bed,
And a woman without children,
Is as good as dead
Who will help us appeal the god of children?
Who will sponsor her sacrifice?
Sacrifice of a cow and a hen,
To be accomplished by a bag of rice,
Just to get her the smile,
Smile of seeing her child,
Whose though always disturb her mind
Making her travel form miles to miles.
For she keeps saying: I am fruitless,
I have never put to bed,
And a woman without children,
Is as good as dead.
Written
by Akinola Samson
by Akinola Samson
Akinolasamson1234@gmail.com