Ring set in silver (It could have been gold)
Gown in lavender (White would be bold)
Bring her the flowers (Or, better, cash to hold)
Down to the courthouse (The church is too cold)
Sing all the good songs (The spinster is sold)
Frowns aren’t allowed her (Should hands unfold?)
Things will be better (Or so I’ve been told)
Crown for her beauty (Cross the threshold)
Her name is no longer hers. Likely, it never was.
It was her forefathers’, her clansmen’s, or her conquerors’
Dead men who at least perished bearing their own name.
Starting with name, body soon the same, and if she refuses,
Then, oh what a shame!
The place she resides in will never be hers:
An African mother is but a servant on loan;
A stranger building a home that isn’t her own.
The friends she loved, the songs she sang,
The clothes she wore that drew the Man…
Bury the way she once laughed – make it more ‘wife-like’
Remove her adorning pieces – make the doll less lifelike.
Nobody asks if the bride is okay;
Instead the next victims launch for the bouquet.
Emelda Gwitimah’s fiction and CNF work have been featured in The AKE Review, The Willowherb Review, The Post Journal and Bambazonke Online. Her poem, “Soil” is featured in the anthology, One Poem: GBV Survivor’s Edition (TsongaMakololo Press, 2020). She has also been shortlisted twice for the Intwasa Short Story Prize (2020, 2021). Her latest poetry can be found in the African Urban Echoes anthology (Griots Lounge, 2024) and the Strange Water anthology (Mystery Publishers Kenya, 2023). You can find her on X @bellemelda.