I tried to raise a King,
and in my failure, I weep.
Watching the effigy of my hopes and dreams fall to the ‘healing of the nation”.
Losing, even as I clutch him to my bosom
As he struggles away from my grasp,
Spitting vehemently in my face,
For I am she who did not do enough.
Who knew a mother’s love could be unrequited,
Whoever heard of a thing so pure being rejected for the sake of myth.
Preached by paupers and pushers,
A pide piper shrouded in whisps of acrid smoke, red eyes, and hate,
It is a myth told by elders and those who should be wise.
Who claim to lead the nation in the name of Selassie,
False prophets? Or brazen profiteers?
New world over seers stealing the hope of three generations,
Making our children new slaves for a modernized plantation,
Preaching Babylon’s downfall while building its walls with the blood of our sons.
And then anger rises, crests in the most terrible way,
Because behind my worry lines and fatigue rares the ugly head of impotent rage,
A cancerous rage, knawing at my chest,
Hating myself to the tune of a single question…”How could I have done better?”
My story is not unique,
My experience not special,
Yet the silence is deafening,
As we the embroiled mothers as all too tired, afraid, isolated, abused, and shamed to speak.