Unmarried

Mama says I ate
my husbands.
Seasoned them
with my salty
attitude and
cooked them in
a black pot on
the night of the
waning moon.

She claims that
my saggy beasts
are an attestation
to my disgrace
as a woman
and my mortar
isn’t fit for
pounding groundnuts.

My body is a
fictional tale, she
boldly says.
I’m not fit to
lay on the ground
that holds the
semen of our
ancestors.
My complaints
under the sun
are equivalent to
the sound of
gushing birds.

Mama said I drowned
my suitors in
marwa after the
midnight dance.
She claims that
my speeches
are a drunk man’s
rants.
I am not fit to sit
among women
when shadows
descend and the
chiefs play the bul jok.

I am an unmarried woman.
Without a title.
Without a claim.

Link to the Italian translation

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