Stanley I. Onyewuchi

Where have all the parents gone

she walks over to the weight, plastic bags in both hands
her weak crooked fingers hold tirelessly on as she makes her way over
it is almost done; for today, at least
she sighs, and spits in disgust as she remembers the next day’s work,
and tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s; the same everyday
she recalls the long walk here from her hut
everyday, as she approaches it; a tremor runs through her spine
every time, as she approaches, she fights down the urge to vomit
she dares not waste what was her only meal of yesterday
the intense stench from the refuse heap makes her bend over; threatening to beat her down
not willing to take chances with her bent back,
she begins to work, fighting the puerile smell with every breath in her
with a stick in one hand, and a bag in the other, she forages through the dump for food
from time to time, she loses the battle and must inhale
as she does so, she throws her hand in front of her face, as though to ward it off
for a while, she lets out a cackling cough that spasms her frail body, and spits out the phlegm, coated with blood
she begins to search again; but the cough returns, throwing her unexpectedly face first into the little hole she created on the hill
she lets out a muffled scream of terror, and struggles back up, wiping off the phlegm coated spot from her wrinkled lip

the sunrays had gotten a little milder; so she knew she had been at it long enough;
she shook her head; it can never be long enough
she walks over to the weight, plastic bags in both hands
as the man weighs them, she peers over at the scale
he smiles crookedly knowing she cannot read
she takes the smile for a big haul and smiles toothlessly back
“in all, 50 pounds today,” he says, counting out 50 coins into her hand
her smile vanishes; and all her age shows
she ties it in a piece of cloth, and makes the long journey home
tired and hungry, she hurries on home; the children must be back by now
she walks on, bitter, knowing that even death will be a torment to her soul
who will take care of her grandchildren?
she cries the cry of the poor; she cries the silent cry of the old
where have all the parents gone?


“am I a human being, or am I just a number in this land
waiting to be taken by the enemy
the enemy has taken our parents away, all our parents away
and I am so cold: I am so lonely
I have no family; I am so alone
and I am so cold; I am so lonely…”
the children sing this sorrowful song in the camp
destiny has pulled them together; AIDS orphans them all
they all crawl into the classroom, where the only meal of the day is served
they eat the meager food slowly, plastic bag in hand
after the lessons, they begin the long walk home
a cry of alarm rends the air; the little girl of four picks herself up and wipes her tears
she bends over the foul-smelling ground, and picks the little grains with her little fingers
scraping even the barest trace back into the bag, she makes her way home, her little fingers bleeding
tired and hungry, she hurries on; her sick widowed mother will be hungry too
as she walks on, tears roll quickly down her cheeks
she cries the cry of the poor; she cries the innocent cry of the young
where have all the parents gone?


she comes home tired; but she cannot rest, the children will be back soon
she prepares their food; hungry, but long used to it, she takes nothing from the pot
she adds water to make it larger; but she knows it may still not be enough for her seven siblings
she thinks nostalgically of her school days, before her parents died
now, she alone must take care of the children

at the crack of dawn, she wakes up, and tidies the hut
then she prepares the children for school
luckily, they are all free of the disease
she hurries back, and begins her day’s work; doing odd jobs for her neighbors for a penny
she scrubs their pots, washes their clothes, cleans their houses…all in a day’s work
tiredly, she scoops the food into the plates, saving a little in the pot; hoping they do not want more
she wipes away her tears, as they threaten to fall into the children’s food
the price to pay is very great
she knows if she cannot give them food, they will all go their own ways
the boys will become thieves; the girls, sex hawkers
a dark voice asks is it really worth it? they will still go their own ways sooner or later….why continue to suffer?
she fiercely answers, because I love them
she will shield them for as long as she can
she cries the cry of the hungry; she cries the desperate cry of the broken
where have all the parent’s gone?
Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground
Red Pulp Underground