Mother, tell me

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Let me ask mother

I stopped the tears but they flowed

What now?

Mother, you held me on the shoulders.

And I recited in my small boy voice

That men don’t cry and their tears dried

When Murungu made them

Their wells emptied out

Mother but I have seen the sky somersault

The sun has stood right above my head

My bald head caked and baked

Thunder clapped in my ears

And then I was overwhelmed

My wells by miracle filled up

They rose to the brim

But mother, I stood speedily

Looked away and wiped them

For men do not cry

What I never asked is, mother even

When the sky comes crashing on them

They stand straight when the world sits on their shoulders?

Am I still the man you raised or did this baptise me

Baptise to be the sissy son who lets tears catch them

Mother, tell me.

Should my children still call me father?

Am I to sit in the baraza meetings?

And my beard will I still keep it

Or I will wake up with a smooth chin

Without any hair strand sprouting from

And the village wake up to my gone beard

I will not scream I will be mute

Men have no lungs to scream

Their deepest emotions to be hidden

But mother tell me

I saw no what no two eyes should see

I trod on path no two feet should set upon

And mother I wiped them as quickly as I could

Tell me mother, who refilled the dry well

That I want dry like ever

For men don’t cry.

Tell me

 

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