When my back was broken in primary four by teacher Ralph’s whip
I thought nothing could be more broken – ugly scars without pattern.
I grew up learning to carry a broken spirit
like we dress a cracked ceramic on our kitchen slab for mama
till she picks up a piece, while others resist lifting
till she shouts all the words she’d reserved for demons at us
till we hide with the culprit, shivering at her darts,
ducking under beds, behind sofas, fridges, curtains,
dodging the blunt hit of ballistic high-heels
and the brute words she flings in all directions.
Few crash into the walls, most find their mark in us
till we’ve had an earful of how useless we mean to her
like the men who broke her and left her with scars
of what neighbours call us – fatherless children.
Till we grow beards and breasts enough to leave home – broken
till we grow to know, it is not the wares but herself that breaks,
that stokes her fury, that flings her curses that cut at us.
Now that we don’t know how to fix our broken selves
we know why she remains broken.
