The rules of the Masai woman
Who listens to smoke? Breath pumps
through me. You’re a symbol. You’re
good and kind folk. Perhaps you’re a
Lutheran now or Methodist. There’s a
story here. I find the supple-subtle words
drowning in deep despair and loneliness,
pathetic frustration, listless and lethargic
yet alive. Bone envious of flesh. Mother
abandoned me. Father neglected mother
who in turn neglected me. I think back
to those wasted years of my twenties and
early thirties. I think of the rich men. Their
character and personalities. How the rain
always showered promises on top of my
hungry head. I’m an innocent. You’re the
devil. Walking around as if nothing can
touch you. As if you’re some kind of martyr.
You’re still living and breathing just like each of
those rich men while I’m in need of prayer.
Pushcart Prize nominated Abigail George is a South African-based blogger, essayist, poet and short story writer. Recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council in Johannesburg, one from the Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and another from ECPACC in East London, she briefly studied film at the Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg.
