MusingsPoetry

The Retired Arugbá

She was the daughter of that herbalist
whose incantations are sourer
than the undeveloped milk
of the breast of a teenager

and a cousin to that masquerade
who farted in his attire and had to
manage the odour alone.

A retired Arugbá,
yet full of whoredom.
By her waist, men
had been brought to book

and virgins basked in garments
of inferiority each time she appeared.
None dared to contrast
her beauty with theirs.

Her presence commanded respect
And command head respect
None was more eligible to
Carry the calabash
during her days.

Men went nuts, who
often fed their eyes with her body.
A ‘wonder’. Pretty. Blessed.
Men’s choice.

Now, her breasts sag.
No more buttocks to be wagged.
She’s now old and weary to the young men.
Her neck is now a bamboo,
Stretching in search for men in their prime.

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