All is well, she says
as she crumbles preparing a meal.
The shade of her breasts is the solace of the nation.
Turning her big black three-legged pot,
she has obviated thoughts of poverty.
Rich in her spirit,
she succumbed to her circumstances.

All is well, she says
with bruises all over her body.
Once defeated physically but never emotionally
Through her senescent heart
she filters and purifies her worries.
Like the sugar cane stick are her troubles,
like a bee sting is the pain and hurt they bring.
The genie she bottles
has annotated the outcome to one filled with sweetness.
Like the classical women in the Bible,
she has been anointed with peace, love and joy.

All is well, she says.
She was told not complain.
She was taught to abide.
She was raised to serve,
always second and never the head.
She was shown how to get
but not how to make.
She was given an earthly, bibulous God to praise.
She begged for forgiveness every day.

She had a poor diet, too salty.
A slap for breakfast,
a few kicks and punches for dinner,
insults her daily snack.
She ate more on weekends,
she was getting sick.

One day she realised that being strong
had nothing to do with her staying,
with her understanding, forgiving and forgetting.
She had to bury what’s dead
before it was her turn.

Stop abusing women.