When we were growing up.
While we were growing up.
We used to play Mantlwantlwane! 
Oh, what a joy it was, while we were growing up.
I was a mother and he was the father.
While we were growing up.
My mind, heart, and soul had already prepared me to be a mother. 
The fantasy of motherhood, now the agony of childlessness. 
Lord Hear me…
My womb has turned into a desert. 
I can’t find any offspring with my face, a painful realisation. 
While encountering self-pity in barrenness I yank this worthlessness in me toward my usefulness. 
I hold no hope that I will ever be whole, No seed of life can take root in my soul. 
God hear me…
The pressures to marry and raise a family are enormous in our society. 
Persuade me that I have a seed and that my birthland is fertile.
I do not assume that a plant will spring up wherein no seed has prevailed, I have immense sentiment in the mud that carries the seed. 
Feed from my bosom of Tshepo
Water from my tears Themba
Kindness from my experience with my Kganya
Sunshine from my love Lukhanyo 
With love and gentle focus, I would groom you. 
God hear me, I cry, I long to hold this seed in my very own arms. 
Indeed I am a sister, definitely an aunt but painfully yet to be a Mother!
God hear me…