She stood at the shore of the great river, her feet were buried in the sands thereof. The sun was just setting, the fowls ululated, the breeze blew over her gray, volumetric, maternity-garment as she scratched her belly and wondered how fast it had bulged and blobbed. She stares at the waves of the might Zambezi; the crests and the troughs, the mounds and the ditches; once again in her eyes, Zambezi is dazzling. She tilt her neck, far from the west, a boat looms; her eyes welcomes it, it’s now clear and near, she sees a loving couple solacing, “How I wish,” she screeches. The scenes of this passing couple bathes her eyes with tears, she bemoans and groans, her voice cracks and stammers, she is all alone, not ashamed, so she cries in her voice so loud, pouring all the pain and grief incubated for months. “It used to be nice,” she voices. “I weep for him,” she says. “I mourn for I’ve been denied,” she affirms. “I cry because he adores the other woman, and cares less for this his unborn c...
