Lamnetations

photocredit- ubuntu talks

My mother now looks at her grand children,

descendants of an adopted culture.

She laments at the foreign names they bear,

and how much they yet sound like periwinkle

too twisted even for her own tongue to grow familiar with.

She bits it every time she tries to, she’s tired of trying.

She says they’re worse than I am

and without the black blood stapled on the lintel of their faces,

the African angel might not pass over them

 when he strikes.

Was it wrong to teach you western culture?

She asks as I wave of the question with a buried face.

She says the African dish seems like feaces to them

and their eyes puke at the sight of it.

No wonder she looks stronger than them,

and they’re soft and feeble, just like spaghetti strips.

She said these and many more,

as the cock crowed to her lamentation.