Water has beaten earth to a pulp.
Its scream has gone unheeded.
It forced its way into her home and carried away her children.
Poor earth has swallowed enough.
She has expanded. The natives say she’s bloated.
Earth doesn’t suffer from kidney failure so she wonders who gave the prognosis.
Not today! Not today!
She wouldn’t take this anymore she says.
Her people have been made prisoners in their own homes,
their feet alien to native soil.
Water has become a bandit and floods her territory carting away lives and property.
Earth says she wouldn’t cry, but again she sees her children swimming ankle deep in the flood.
She squirms like a worm.
She quivers like she’s worn.
She trembles under the cold, seeping through her solid, sandy spine.
She reaches for the leaves, for nature to protect her.
But they are all left bare,
with chattering teeth, and cold feet.
Mama! When will the rain stop?
Mama! Make this rain stop.
This is Benin,
and in Benin, the weather is as uncertain as a man reclining on his bamboo chair
with a hoe in his left hand and a gourd of palm wine in his right.
He doesn’t know which to do first, whether to drink or go to the farm.
We only pray, the eternal one holds its brake before it makes us aquatic organisms in a terrestrial habitat.
ART CREDIT: @ m. o.Karts
Also Read: A Pig in the Mire
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