My African Woman

The African woman. The one whose boldness can be compared to that of a lion in it's pride

The one who goes through the dirt and dust so that her child may be cleaned. A woman who can be compared to no other as her beauty is inimitable with her ebony black skin as polished as none has ever beheld yet still posessing that smooth texture and her eyes posessing that glorious gleam which has been seen never before. Teeth as white as infant snow on a December morning that brings all man to stop and stare and her swagger is comparable to that of a queen as she carries herself in all majesty. Her soothing voice that brings placidity to a troubled heart, displaying an attitude of generousity to all creation and gives to every being in need with a cheerful heart and even when she has almost nothing, she shares her little. Who would bear the child of man and cater for it with her entire all?... who? If not my African woman!

The one who would shed tears of pain and hurt so that her child may give smiles of joy and exhiliration. The one who would descend to the lowest, just to uplift her own. The one who would rather die that her child may live Oh! what a woman you are...What a woman, My African woman. Yet! the strokes of pain are lashed on you as your betrothed gives no helping hand and your eyes are filled with a stream of tears as you are pushed aside and your efforts go unrewarded. This stream of unending tears flowing down your cheeks as your heart is bittered but your cry can never remain unheard and your plea to the Almighty is acknowledged. No matter what the world sees you as or whatever they treat you to be, you remain my woman, my icon, you remain that one who is like no other...My African woman.