A century and half will never make earthenware gleam,
even if it be scoured and forgotten
at bottom of a stream.
I am earthenware
born daughter of house
taken wife of man
created mother of nations,
a burden too big to bear
just like this earthenware
I balance on my head.
This young maiden
blossoming in rays of youth
my teeth chalk-white
my breasts, mangoes, ready to be plucked
in season, red and ripe.
Passing by on my way from stream
in skillful balancing acts,
the men sniff after scents of my
akwete cloth, like he-goats in heat
desire dripping from their eyes to form
pools at my feet.