Rosalin wakes up early in the morning.
She rises at the rooster’s second crow,
Or at the muezzin’s first call to prayer, if you may,
To make tea for her husband
And porridge for her youngling.
To milk, to wash, to sweep.
Her husband, Wesili,
Wakes just after sunrise,
Red-eyed, musty-breathed.
He asks, “Why is this tea sugarless?”
Rosalin answers,
“The quarter kilo you bought last night—
I used it for the baby’s porridge and your tea yesterday.”
“You are wasteful, Rosalin.
I married a wasteful woman,” he says.
Rosalin goes about her day,
Crestfallen, but determined.
Determined to do all she must.
Farm vegetables need weeding,
Clothes washing,
Cattle watering.
Soon the sun is overhead—
Time for the midday meal.
Rosalin lights the fire.
Her husband arrives,
Staggering and drawling.
“Where is food, Rosalin?
What have you been doing since morning?”
“I am sorry, my husband. It will be ready soon.”
“You are a lazy woman.
I married a lazy woman,” he retorts.
And when food is ready,
He complains about its bland taste,
About her lack of skill.
The truth?
Rosalin’s oil can ran dry
Not yesterday
Not the day before
Not even last week
And she is tired of the unyielding song
of bring this, and that
Day in, day out,
Rosalin endures the endless labor,
The sting of cutting words,
The hurt of slaps,
The lack,
The silence of unappreciated sacrifice.
Then one fine evening,
As Wesili whines and nags
About her laziness, her wastefulness, her inadequacy,
Rosalin lifts the black, hollow, metallic fire fan,
Entranced, her arm steady.
With a loud, eerie shrill,
She brings it down on Wesili’s neck.
He lies flat and still,
Foam in his mouth.
Neighbors spill outside
One, then another, then another.
The village goes wild.
Rosalin faces life
But for once,
she feels truly free.
Unchained.
Alive.