Plight of a Virtuous Woman of Substance


Woman, dear feeble, quiet, honest and blessed woman,
The mind is wrought with the plight of her,
She is labored and weighed down from within,
But does she cry, NO! She becomes stronger.

She toils, she feeds, she bleeds, she weeps,
Yet she mourns, she groans, she whines and she clamps,
She is deity, she is nymph, she is Delilah, she is gift,
She but bears the weight of the bereaved.

At the morn, she is at the coal, at the noon she is at the field,
At the eve, she is at the dishes, at the night she is at the slander,
At the twilight she is at his bequest, waiting for a night of rest,
This woman weary and angry so, calms her nerves and blesses us all.

She is at her knees praying for the man, she is on the phone asking for his toll,
She is at the yard holding his sole, she is at His throne defending his soul,
She is on the bed wailing in pain, she is beside herself with tears of babies bawling.

At her desk she worries for him, on the move she is weary of him,
At his request she is quiet within, at her time she is broken down within,
By her side the world kept warning, in her heart she heard is calling,
In this era there is no knowing, if she will live or die a-walking

Her heart is open knowing no folly, her mind is up shielding all stories,
She bares the scars, the seen and the hidden,
She holds her sides and watch the mockingbird sail lowly,
She lays awake in the midst of all sleeping,
She is awash with shame at no tender blessing.

She stays submissive with a smile alluding to nothing cruel but all amusing,
This is the theme of all that comes from man and groin in passion astounding,
She tends her sores without begrudging, that the man she loves is all but caring,
There is reason for that which is taunting.

This is the tale of the woman and her heart in waiting,
This is the canvas by which we have being designed,
This is our lot in things dark and fair, this is our stance for all that is unclear,
For herself she knows no glory, for her man she upholds his glory.

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Orisa Bi Iya


Yes it is a none fact that they could be stubborn, rude, nagging, provoking and what have you, yet! They are the vessel by which we multiply and fill the earth, YES! I’m talking about women.

Some few weeks ago I was privileged or otherwise unfortunate to have been present at a child bearing and trust me it was worse than a rollercoaster ride. I stood on the opposite of the delivery room watching through the transparent glass. Each time a wave of contraction hit her I cringed and I tried to pierce the looking glass with my chipped nails.

Probably I’m not giving a very good description of this. She was pretty well… That’s if you could see past the pain in her eyes, her furrowed brow, tear stained face and matted hair. She had a few drops of blood upon her lips from obviously biting on it, her ears all turned red from the strain of pushing, her hospital gown lifted in sheer abandon from all that tossing around. I could see her tonsils clearly with each scream that passed out of her mouth and you get to wonder if you did want to go through the same. Surrounding her were the doctors with the fake encouraging smiles and oozing out soothing comments that were obviously not even being heard.

Then it occurs to me that this same woman who is birthing in pain still faces the brutal markings of her husband, still tries to put the home in order, makes sure the meal is served, attend to the children, is belittled if the children do not fare well at their academics, still manages to go to work, prays for the entire family and does most of the crying. Its such a burden and yet carry a child for nine months while going through all sorts of hormonal and physical changes and the man still does not think all these are enough reasons to restrain himself from hurting the woman he claims to love.

Yet behind every successful man they say is a woman, always taking the back seat while her husband stands as a beacon to the world. She cowers at home waiting to be trampled upon and abused emotionally for not attending even to the slightest of details. They do forget that this punching bag of theirs actually represents their own mothers.

So back to the room and the writhing woman, hours have gone by and brows are being cooled, little by little after so much coaxing the miracle unravels itself and tenderly the pinkish dome shows its crown and she is encouraged to push further. “Unto us a child is born” and indeed it is so, the baby with a yelp gives its first sign of life by crying out loud and is cleaned and wrapped in soft clouds of clothing, I smile for through God this woman has created life.

I look up to see the mother and to my utmost surprise, she grins like a cheshire cat forgetting that just moments ago she was having a near death experience. I just might consider going through it afterall

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