A mother's daily hustle

Today, she walks awfully slow,

Across the rain-drenched streets,

Balancing a heavy basket woven of reeds,

On her plaited, dark head.

She stops at a busy intersection,

To check for inbound traffic.

Her wet feet waddle through,

The whirling run-off.

She scoffs at the street children playing in the drizzle.

One of the older boys tries to snatch some mangoes,

But she lifts the heavy basket higher,

And she walks briskly toward a political gathering, and to safety.

Powerful speeches can be heard,

From the shielded loudspeakers on trucks,

Such rallies have promise,

In her line of business,

The customers like her,

Enormous Washington-grafted oranges,

And Kenya's flavourful red mangoes,

She has worked the killing streets,

For two years now.

She's had direct run-ins with the police,

But she has to sell her fruits,

Herbs and vegetables,

Her children depend on her,

Her income feeds them.

She was a primary school teacher,

In a middle-income neighbourhood,

Then came the Covid-19 pandemic,

A viral disease that originated in China.

After many fatalities, the government,

Ordered a lockdown and shutting down,

Schools across the country,

And as well as border crossings

Sometimes, she sits by herself in the dark corner,

And weeps silently,

Matilda, her youngest daughter,

Can't get enough breast milk,

Michael, the four-year autistic boy,

Bangs his head on the cupboard doors,

And screams for the porridge and food,

Marjorie, now only seven years,

Cares for her siblings,

As her mother travels,

Mean roads, selling merchandise.

Their two-bedroom house is,

A distasteful, filthy shack,

Following her husband's death from Covid-19,

They moved out of their former house,

Once their savings run out,

When her husband was transferred

In the intensive care unit,

The costs went up dramatically,

Then the oxygen reservoirs ran out,

Poor families bought oxygen on the black market,

From the unscrupulous middlemen

And the hospital personnel who required land titles, car cards and life savings,

Then comes the slow, agonizing death.

Without government support,

And from her previous school,

She walks the streets hawking for survival,

Sometimes her family starves,

She endures the daily intimidations,

And confiscation of her stock,

From corrupt local administration,

Law enforcement and other criminal gangs,

Her credentials and experience are,

Useless in this low-paying country,

That abuses her teachers, doctors, and

Other significant occupations.

Many widows like her scramble each day,

To provide food, clothing, and shelter for their families,

While the corrupt government sits on its hands and enjoys the plunder,

The usual rhetoric of the ruling elites is,

"We fought!," "We brought you sleep!", and

"We empowered the women!".

These smooth, greased fat cats divert funds,

Aid and assistance meant for,

Such vulnerable groups and young people.

The International AIDS Day drew attention,

To growing numbers of young girls, boys,

And women, turned into prostitution,

Let's salute the mothers who put food,

On our tables, clothes, shelter, and love.

These women are the unsung heroes.