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A POEM WRITTEN BY MARIAMA MUNIA ZOMBO TO CELEBRATE MENSTRUAL HYGIENE DAY ( MAY 28TH, 2020)

MY PERIODS, MY POVERTY

Crimson red she flows, trickling down my thighs as I run to my abode
Anchored around my waist, grandma’s cord preparing me for the load
Rags or cloth, in thrash I search, my angst and anguish send me astray
Hunting everywhere for a cloak that warms and soaks my ache away
Mama warns, no room here to cry

I feel their eyes, I hear their jeers, head bowed in daunting gloom
Fresh lessons about my guest I seek to grant me sweet freedom
Black Soap and well water I grab, but merciless stares around blow my brain
Oh Let the steaming bath cover my disgust, washing it down the muddy drain
as I ponder were my rags would dry

My school, a mile or so away, far from home I have to trot each day
Where would I hide to change my soaking rags and wash this gush away
The carefree play, wrestling and games I yearn for, but my dear stranger
In force has tied my hands and mouth, no one to speak to, no one to share
I long for school, but have to say goodbye

I muse, if wishes were horses, a long ride I will take, to get that treasure
Which no eye would have to see, and bury my poor rags and cord for sure
And If I can’t find comfort soon in nature’s fruits and flowing red juices
Which I did not choose, then till God stops my warm flow, sweet red roses
I’ll be sent once a month till I die

 

Flames of love

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