Encomium of African Motherhood and Resilience
Before the sun yawns over the hills, she wakes,
Hands weaving hope like threads in dawn’s loom.
A home without a hearth, yet her spirit is the fire,
Rain drums the roof like an impatient drummer,
Still—she whispers, “A mother’s love must feed.”
The wood sighs in smoke, then dies in the rain’s fist,
Yet she stands, a lone tree against the storm’s teeth.
Her skin drinks the cold; her bones hum with ache,
But her heart beats louder than the thunder’s roar.
Still—she whispers, “A mother’s love must feed.”
She seeks refuge in the hut where hens dream,
Where goats curl in the dark like folded shadows.
Smoke coils upward like a prayer to the ancestors,
And grain surrenders to the bubbling pot’s song.
Still—she whispers, “A mother’s love must feed.”
At eight, the storm bows and the children rise,
Their laughter spilling like sunlight after rain.
She smiles, wearing the crown of quiet triumph,
Her sweat the gold, her pain the scepter she wields.
Still—she whispers, “A mother’s love must feed.”
©Aisha Adams
