The thirty cows,
with their lyre-shaped horns, big eyes,
and black coats with white spots,
walked proudly towards our gate
the bride price,
for the “wife material” I was.
No choice, I had to marry this rich intruder.
Good for him, I was a virgin,
my father got a round of applause.
I became Superwoman after the wedding;
an oppressed wife and an assiduous worker,
the one who wipes her children’s tears,
but with no one to wipe hers.
My three-year-old daughter,
her sunshine smile melts my heart;
loud cry is a thunderstorm,
she roars, with fury in her eyes,
but I wonder, I wonder,
if one day she won’t cry like her mama.
Hell no!
I will raise her differently.
A wedding ring won’t turn her into a woman.
A fake smile won’t add beauty to her face.
Quiet lips won’t make her feminine.
A graceful walk won’t make her desirable.
She won’t be a cow,
she won’t be sold for cows.
