The Working Mother

Carrying the child walked the mother
Spade in hand to work in the field
Leaving other children with her old father
As the dawn in the east darkness peeled

Ground must be tilled for maize to be planted
At the first fall of water from godly heaven
Rain hasn’t touched this land for a while
Dry months have reigned without mercy

It is not easy to prepare the field
Parched, scorched it’s become like rock
But persists the mother to get the work done
For the gods may deign to water the land

At times she would sit in the shade
Bare her breasts and feed her child
Until his cries in the hot wind fade
And again she will pick up the spade

Her daughter will bring a meager lunch
Rice or maize wrapped in a leaf
All food is tasty when it is scarce
You don’t need even salt to season

She will toil till pink is the sky
Then with her son she’ll go to her hut
The sun has gone down the horizon to rest
So too must the working mother