A mother's daily hustle
By Mwebe Morgan
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 ripe yellow mangoes,
But she lifts her heavy basket higher,
And she walks briskly toward a political gathering, and to safety.
Powerful political speeches can be heard,
From the shielded loudspeakers on trucks,
Such rallies have promise,
In her line of business,
The customers love her,
Enormous Washington-grafted oranges,
And Kenya's flavourful red mangoes,
For two years running,
She has worked the killing streets.
She has 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 a 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 frail cupboard doors,
And screams for the porridge and food,
Marjorie, now only seven years,
Cares for her siblings,
As her mother travels,
Mean roads of Kampala,
Selling her merchandise.
They live in a two-roomed hovel,
A distasteful, filthy shack,
Plagued by buzzing mosquitoes and slimy toads,
That pay her family nightly visits.
They had moved out of their former home,
When her sick husband was transferred,
To the intensive care unit.
His medical bills had shot up dramatically,
And their savings ran out like mist on a sunny day.
Hospitals ran out of oxygen reservoirs,
She bought oxygen cylinders on the black market,
From the unscrupulous middlemen,
And the hospital personnel who demanded
Land titles, car cards and life savings,
Then, comes the slow, and agonizing death.
With her husband's death from Covid-19,
And without government support,
And help from her previous school,
The Bank came knocking on her door!
Now, she walks the streets hawking for survival,
Sometimes her young family starves,
She endures the daily intimidations,
From the local authorities,
Who confiscate her stock,
On tramped charges,
Every day, she also contends with the criminal gangs.
Her academic 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 fat cats,
Sit on their hands and enjoy the plunder,
They invest millions of dollars and other forms of Aid,
back in the USA, EU & UAE.
Those funds are meant for vulnerable
women and young people.
The ruling elites rhetoric is that,
"They fought to end dictatorship!,"
"They brought the people sleep!"
"They empowered the women!"
The International AIDS Day drew attention,
To growing numbers of young girls and boys,
And women turned into prostitution,
Some are drug mules working for notorious international cartels,
Others have been smuggled into the Arab countries,
To work as domestic servants,
While some are now pleasure tools,
For the oil-rich sheikhs and their sons.
Let's salute these mothers of Africa,
Who put food on our tables,
Buy clothes, and build the shelters.
Despite all tribulations, they love us back.
These charismatic women are the unsung heroes,
Of our generations.
