ACHEBE, Chinua

A Mother In A Refugee Camp

No Madonna and Child could touch
Her tenderness for a son
She soon would have to forget. . . .
The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea,
Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs
And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps
Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there
Had long ceased to care, but not this one:
She held a ghost-smile between her teeth,
And in her eyes the memory
Of a mother’s pride. . . . She had bathed him
And rubbed him down with bare palms.
She took from their bundle of possessions
A broken comb and combed
The rust-colored hair left on his skull
And then—humming in her eyes—began carefully to part it.
In their former life this was perhaps
A little daily act of no consequence
Before his breakfast and school; now she did it
Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.


Love Cycle

At dawn slowly

the sun withdraws his

long misty arms of

embrace. Happy lovers

whose exertions leave

no aftertaste nor slush

of love’s combustion; Earth

perfumed in dewdrop

fragrance wakes

to whispers of

soft-eyed light…

Later he

will wear out his temper

ploughing the vast acres

of heaven and take it

out of her in burning

darts of anger. Long

accustomed to such caprice

she waits patiently

for evening when thoughts

of another night will

restore his mellowness

and her power

over him.

Answer

I broke at last

the terror-fringed fascination

that bound my ancient gaze

to those crowding faces

of plunder and seized my

remnant life in a miracle

of decision between white-

collar hands and shook it

like a cheap watch in

my ear and threw it down

beside me on the earth floor

and rose to my feet. I

made of their shoulders

and heads bobbing up and down

a new ladder and leaned

it on their sweating flanks

and ascended till midair

my hands so new to harshness

could grapple the roughness of a prickly

day and quench the source

that fed turbulence to their

feet. I made a dramatic

descent that day landing

backways into crouching shadows

into potsherds of broken trance. I

flung open long-disused windows

and doors and saw my hut

new-swept by rainbow brooms

of sunlight become my home again

on whose trysting floor waited

my proud vibrant life.