THE ODDS OF BEAUTY

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Being a pretty girl is a task

Watching the scumbers worship you
the wretched liars whisper on
the ones who make promises they
never intended to keep
oh, and the jealous sisters who spread rumors; one
even said her uncle’s uncle is my lover, and
my mother bethroted me twelve times!!!

The battle of beauty is the battle of no-one
the circle of vanity and Illustrations, and satisfaction
that’s all the world sees and believes
blinded to the truth, covered with masked conceptions
the ones you ought to love, you despise
they got all the love they need, you say!
they got nothing I tell you, only slanderous words
and killer eyes to crack the radiance of their youth
neglecting the wounds she hides to heal

If indeed the beautiful ones are not yet born
I fear for the war that awaits their thrown…

RUTH BRODRICK 2016

TAMED: “BE WISE WOMAN”

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You close your mouth when he speaks rudely because you are afraid,
now you have become an empty jar with a broken handle.

You let your oil dry and did not replace it because he did not like it,
now you have become as dry as the plantain tree during harmattan.

You kneel before him when he is upset because you want to be submissive,
now your back have arched, that he compares it to the camels of the wanderers.

You wipe his shoes with your only wrapper because you do not want him to call you lazy,
now you are half naked and he does not even bother if you be Eve.

You choose to give him seeds of 12, so his mother will not call you barren,
now your stomach is a bag of fat and he no longer finds pleasure in you.

You have now become so pale and grey, that even your daughter now asks
what happened to you?…

Copyright©2015. Ruth Brodrick.

Of gods And Of Men

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Of gods and of men
Of spirit and fleshy hearts
The battles of the realm is not ours
It belongs to them that lay unknown

Our fathers do evil, and say it’s good
Our mothers bear the shame in duty
We sit and watch the drama ignorant
Our lives were sacrificed to idols

The trail is none but ours to keep
The foundations are faulty and dark
Filled with horrifying tunes of idolatry
Lavishing in the heads of the priests

They say we are small gods, we are not
We are men who bear the load of ignorance
Pointing and blaming none but ourselves
We pay homage to woods that don’t bless

We say it’s tradition, is tradition really a joke?
Group the portions of sacred norms in parts
Then you’d find timeless machines of lies
Our ancestors deceived us; we deceived ourselves

By Ruth Brodrick
All rights reserved ©2015

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ARE YOU MAD?

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When the heavens became dark
you dashed into her room
and soiled her bed with the evil you grew
now the gods spit thick saliva on you
and the blessings they owe you, they have withdrawn
the hands that blessed you now curse you
the lips that first kissed you now sigh
your mother laments your foolishness
she has shaven her head for you are dead to her
she now asks you, ‘who is your mother eh?’
your father is deaf to the insurgence
he thinks you are mad

are you mad?

she is now with your seed
and hates it and you for the rough linen scar
she curses your manhood, but you still want her
you call her love; she is the only woman you want
the priest will now take you to the shrine and torture you
he will put fresh pepper on you and pour palmwine on your sore
he will tie you under the sun, so it will melt your black skin
but your mother still comes to clean you at night and whispers to you

I am still your mother, but you are not my son
and you do not have a father or a sister
only a child that will hate you when she finds out
that she is the daughter to your sister

By Ruth Brodrick.

All rights reserved ©

MAMI WATER; THE AFRICAN ODE

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The night has come to our land
and the tune of the river fades away
leaving only the rats to report to the spirits

blatant fears of rioting silence
growing into stunted rigor of strength
she sits, and listens
she has become the dreaded voice that weeps
her plight now is hay dressed in cow dunk
stealing away the glow of the sapphire in her
the mask she now wears is crafted to light darkness
as the spirits now feed on her trembling
unravelling the dirty waters of bloody feast

you look at her and see water spirits
she is not like them, they are like her
cresting to the threshold of her thin tears
go closer, look at her again
is she not your daughter?
see the snakes on her hair
they conjure her to the gallows to drain her
now her bitterness slaps your mouth from anguish
her colour; black till the break of dawn

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©, this article should not be used or shared without the permission of the author

Cologne Her

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You smell her skin; kernel and groundnut oil
a cluster of butterfly eludes you
your wildest imagination cuts through the fragrance

under her bed, you stole the secret
you wore it, yet it wears her on you
you look ravishing, but with her glory
now you tell the lies to antique minds
but they can recognize the origin of the cologne
it wears a grin on your face that resembles village
the cassava farm recognizes you as you walk by
it mocks the worn out pride on your face
and praises the ghost of the woman you wear

you are vexed; you sneak it back under the bed
the rumble of the sweet smells of lavender bows to you
you want this one, but you rather not wear old grin
so you leave, smelling of coconut oil instead

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©. This poem should not be used or shared without the author’s permission.

STUPID GIRL; BE PRAGMATIC

You’re such a stupid girl
Will you ever be pragmatic?
See how you’ve turned ugly
And yet you think he adores you
Is that why you came back?

You are with no sense
Yeti took your virginity
And slapped your face
He chased you away
And yet you came back

You look like a madwoman
Look at you, are you not an ignoramus
Your skin is crumpled from his hands
Your breasts have already fallen
And yet you came back

He pours soured wine on you
Then calls the dogs to lick it off you
Treats you no better than a whore
And calls you his wife; what?
And yet you came back

Your face has swept his robe
He pounds you in his laps
Your laps have no respect in public
For he tells your tale in the bar
And yet you came back

You sold your beauty for a fool
You know this, and you regret it
Yet you like it, the way he holds you
You don’t mind the pain, you love him
And that’s why you came back

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©. This poem should not be shared or used without the author’s permission.