In honor of Mothers' Day
From my poetry collection, BEYOND DREAMS:THE RITUAL DANCER, Sabanoh Press, Liberia (West Africa), 1989
Ma Massa
I
She has carried her share
of life’s burdens.
Her breasts, flat on chest,
are not those seen in Playboy.
When she opens and reties her lappa*
her wrinkled, stretch-marked stomach,
seen fleetingly, says she has done her duty
Her face bears few signs of aging.
People simply say, “she is tight.”
She works hard,
fries Kalla* and doughnuts at five a.m.,
gets children off to school.
Eight of them have survived
through God’s grace and country medicine.
She sends her wards off.
One carries a big basin of kalla and doughnuts
that weighs down his small head.
Another pushes a wheelbarrow
loaded with assorted dukahfleh.*
Ma Massa follows them
with a train of helpers toting
Beyond Dreams : The Ritual Dancer
pigs’ feet, salted meat, smoke fish,
boney*,bitter balls*, peppers,
small packets of macaroni and bene seeds,
the odds and ends that bring dividends.
She won’t forget the out-dated newspapers
and cement-coated wrappers,
the toddler holding on securely to her lappa.
II
At the market when business is slow,
her friends scratch and plait each other’s hair,
the finishing touch, a debonair look,
that defies sidewalk salons,
prevents costly dents in pockets.
They exchange news, good or bad,
sing each other’s joy,
wail each other’s sorrow.
They cook their rice and soup
and feed and change their young,
sweat it out in the sun
calculate the day’s intake.
III
The sound of chopping wood resounds.
Gray smoke lazily slinks out
Ma Massa’s country kitchen.
The smell of burnt palm oil
captures noses, dances around
the nearby houses.
Evening, brightened by the kitchen fire,
unveils mouths smeared with palm oil
and bulging with rice,
fingers crawling round greasy pan
in search of last rice grains.
Ma Massa’s face
is tired but serene,
speechless among
the screaming,
happy, angry, sleepy
children’s voices.
(c) Althea Mark-Romeo 1989
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