Honestly, I think –
Papa is caught in this 5-to-9 thing,
late to dinner, quick to the cot,
broke, hoodwinked n’ exhausted;
venting anger and woes on Mom,
a money machine to us – the family.

Anything like him I wouldn’t like to be.
Neither do I, ever, ever, like Mama,
a goddess – completely ruled by her boss.
A bomb – nagging, swearing, foul-tongued,
I’ll be unconventional – an autonomous wife,
a freewheeling and modern life I’ll lead.

But why do I still weave this pattern –
mother’s despised submissiveness,
allowing my no-string-attached lovers
to bully and humiliate me?
Forenoon am always with a calendar,
praying for month-end and paycheck
my baby – fed by a bottle, left to a babysitter.

Hey! Don’t give me that:
you-were-still-naïve BS
I was grown,
knew what I wanted
it wasn’t just a mere talk
when I resolved all these, may be
Intent like youth is only good for the young.

© Ugo Nkwoala

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