By Joyce Ashuntantang
My daughter, you tell me you did not fall from a tree
You have a father, and you want his name
And so today you carry a piece of paper with
A new name, a flash light of identity
They say I am a good woman
Because I do not tell you how your father laughed
At the love that brought him into my thighs
And hung my hymen like a pendant on his neck
They say I am a real African woman
Because I do not tell of my nine month agony
His mother daily mocking my mother at the market place
Saying his son is no dog to fall for trash like me
They say my stomach is a guarded store
Because I do not tell you that my brain
Could find x even in the absence of y
But his P made me a “slut” fit for no school
They say I have the brain of a tortoise
Because I allowed your father to drive that big car
Through our family’s honor and pain
In exchange for your visa into “bush”
They say you must be grateful to me
Because I gave up my life for yours to be
But my daughter, a paper is a paper
Your identity is woman. Someday!