Micro hands cling to the nurturer
as you suckle from my breast
your sight not yet seeing.
Before you can even comprehend motion
or any other verb for that matter,
I am compelled to say this:
Son, you are born at a trying time.
Inheriting the crimes of your uncle and his cronies.
You are to bear the brunt of wrath.
A myriad of your archetype
tied up in a noose
paying for violence by your elders
should you struggle against the rope,
you risk suffocation.
I ask you to surrender.
See the gruesome example as is; hate,
hate them not.
They are your people.
Conceive not the cult of calamities
but the community to weep with and suckle from.
Know that to wear pants and fasten a belt
doesn’t hand you authority.
To lead isn’t to close your fist and strangle,
it is to open your palms for the other,
to brush the hairs of the frail.
The power that radiates from each limb
The sharp tongue lurking behind your mouth
The land between your ears
The seeds dangling from your groin,
are to be used sparingly.
Isicathulo sako ak’melanga s’khalise
Your shoe shouldn’t cause terror.
As a mother, I will be graceful
Like a wash of rain on your head
When a summer’s scorch is a strenuous load
I will lick your bruised knees,
Instead of harshly rebuking the shenanigans.
I prepare not a perfect child,
but an incredible human being.
I will show a mother’s love such that,
It isn’t a foreigner farming your land,
But nutrients to dispense to even an insect.
Whoever you desire: he/she/they
However you identify: it/him/her/them
It is an incredible person I will raise.