They were not allowed to speak
in their mothers’ wombs; and
the syringes boiled their genes.
They hoarded instincts,
that they relieved past prime:
begot other brood and liberally
offered the etiquette- resilience,
serenity in the land of their people where
colour mattered least and
merit hallowed their unions, in purity, on The Continent.
ATTA GIRL: TASTE
You will speak of troubled words, enter
the Corridors of the Learned but
your body belongs to me,
the only reason your
papers will endure my reigns; and
when your honour meets my desires, you will
bow lesser, cringe a little because you ought to.
When you query this, one bit,
like a pea in a pod,
like a puppy on a bone,
like a corpse in a grave- you will
surely fail. Unless,
you tang the hood of honour
as you must, being woman, unfettered.
Poems © Atuhairwe Agrace Mugizi
Image: Isaac Araguim via Flickr (cropped)