I see her in a tattered blouse
Majestically parading with pain
Good Samaritan holding her shoulder
But she never gives up.

She is in bad health indeed
But still over-breastfeeds
Her children to obesity
They still get milk from her.

Her husband enjoys her milk
With friends and relatives
Prejudiced in sharing her milk
Favouring the husband’s tribe.

Crowned sick woman of Africa
But her husband objects
In her sorry state
She is forced to sleep with him.

I see her in a torn skirt
World Bank and IMF wrap her
But my eyes still penetrate
To see her nakedness.

Once known as warm heart
Your destiny destroyed now
By your extravagant leaders
Mother! I am sorry for you.