A toast! To Tope,
she sells her maw
to bring in rents,
her beauty is her freehold –
a price for just a fee.

An errant daughter we may call her
devoid of virtue, loose, a slut, asawo,
unknown to us she is our misfortune
– our self-indulgence and vanity
that brands every woman a whore.

Yesterday, she may have been a virgin –
her mother’s joy, her father’s pride
whom your advances before this necessity
to quell a gentleman’s appetite
would have provoked wrath – disdain.

Today she looks not prim and proper
in her mini, in her bustier – a bared navel
revealing plump busts and round thighs
cruising the TV screens and city’s billboards
before cheering fans who VOTE or EVICT.

You may say she’s not our Red-light lady;
she’s a housemate, a diva or a celeb –
an imp of a reality show we hail “Big Brotherhood”
but anonymous to us she throws the very essence
of femininity to the trash

not out of noble gestures,
but out of twisted beliefs and greed
to get bills paid, jewels, apparels and fame.
We call such ones hustlers –
yet deny, wrapped too tight to their virtues.

Why the bother? If in a whore we desire
that a wife would readily give
why the name-calling? Are our boos not
like words of a woman to her avid lover?
How miserable and cunning our contrivance.

Let the toast pass! Drink to her … don’t ask
if she’s MARY or TOPE – that vagrant nymph,
or that bashful maiden of sixteen … don’t ask
if she’s your wayward daughter, baby mama or aunt
we are the Sun, they are our rays.

© Ugo Nkwoala | 2019 | All rights reserved.

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