The Cracked Hands

She sits by the roadside,

In a crowded urban wilderness,

Blaring horns and street music play loud,

A spiralling river of pedlars,

Sell their merchandise whilst,

Chanting and drumming to attract customers.

She stares at the schoolchildren,

Crossing the busy junction,

She sighed quietly,

Her heart beats hard at moments like these,

But those days are behind her now!

 A passer-by tosses a copper coin,

into her porcelain bowl.

Today has been painstakingly slow,

She feels a burning sensation,

In her groaning stomach,

She stares at the clock on the street,

She's supposed to be some place,

Today is Friday! 

After Juma prayers, she collects alms,

She groans again and yawns.

Behind her, a strong crackling sound,

Resonates, causing her to jump up. 

She turns around and opens the lids on an old spaghetti box,

Inside, she rises gently,

A screaming four-month-old baby, 

She hugs him to her tiny chest,

She looks left and right and sees nobody.

She pulls out a little breast,

And feeds her rambling son.

She grins for the first time since morning,

The boy calms as he suckles,

More passersby stop and gaze at her,

She becomes nervous and turns her back on them,

An elderly woman put her groceries on her knees,

And limps away, tearing!

More people place money in her bowl,

While other women mock her and move on,

Her broken, cracked hand is quick to hide the cash,

She picks some bread and nibbles,

Next, she opens a bottle of chilled Pepsi Cola and sips it loud.

She smiles and thanks the Good Samaritans.

Abigail is her name,

She's just thirteen years old,

Living on the mean streets in Kampala,

Prior to COVID-19 pandemic, 

She was a primary six student,

In one of the government's run-down rural schools,

About 100 miles outside the capital.

Her drunken stepfather had raped her, 

When she notified her mother of the offence,

She beat Abigail harshly, and starved her for days.

Every night, her father would come home.

And violate her again,

Till she fled home.

A few months later, she realized that she had become pregnant and homeless.

She stares at her cracked hands again,

Tears stream down her little angelic face,

She's been working on the stone quarry for months,

Chopping and shredding stones for food and shelter.

Some women in the quarry had paid her hospital bills when she delivered.

The heavy November rains had caused a landslide, 

A massive movement of rocks, soil and boulders,

Had claimed the lives of her friends, They were never recovered.

She did not return to the quarry.

Let us protect the girl child!