Becky, that girl, she earns from house chores,
Prior to which the fast life she chose.
Choices are somehow a bane to the existence of joy.
Every now and then she feels the remorse.
Wasting away like Christ on the cross,
Who, unlike Becky, was dying for a cause,
The saved ones among us say it was not by force.
Becky had not been groomed to be perfect.
However, she knows how to hold a broom so perfect.
She knew she was not always doomed to be silent,
Oh, how she wanted to be a singing superstar.
I can tell you for a fact there was a price to pay.
I never really liked how Uncle Frank stared at her bosom every day.
So one day Fiona, Frank’s sweetheart,
goes to the market in Kombewa far away.
Suddenly Frank wanted to play.
Fiona’s kid and I on the playground we go to play and sway,
The joy of a couple of boys so immeasurable.
I can swear Becky’s voice is so sweet,
She must have been humming, I never really knew.
Later in my youth, I discovered that she had been moaning,
On that day when Frank wanted to play.
He must have promised Becky a job that would pay.
Moaning, throwing up in the morning,
Mourning, losing a baby two weeks subsequent to that morning.
I wanted to go back,
To that day,
And ask Becky not to sing,
And ask Frank not to bribe innocence to play,
But poor Becky must have made that choice.
And stupid Frank must have manipulated that choice.
Now I have to sit and wonder if Becky, that girl,
Still wants to be a singing superstar.
Well, I guess it’s still her choice.
Speaking of which Fiona also made her choice,
Still struggling to keep sane,
Frank, her dear man with an imaginary mane,
Now the bane of her existence.
She sells yam and guava to sustain,
Her life resettled back at her father’s home village.
Poor choices human beings make.
Poor and irrational from one stupid mistake.
For Christ’s sake
Some choices put our lives at stake.
I never really liked Uncle Frank anyway.
But that has always been my choice.
Besides living, laughing and loving.
© 2019 Jack Walter