Lament of she with a sluggard son

Wake up you lazy bag, who sleeps till the third rooster crows. Wake up you unfortunate sluggard, who snores until the sun cracks the curtain of the dark. Go out with your fellow men and dig the shamba. Go out and chase after the boars so we can feast on some flesh in the evening. Wake up, you who are a disgrace to she that was married by your father, and make your own hut. Which man your age still sleeps in the same hut where he lost his childhood? Look at my compound, you naughty and rowdy man? Do you see chicks? How can you call yourself a rooster when you do not even have hens? When am I supposed to see birds pecking outside my compound? When shall I see little birds chasing after each other outside my hut? You might have on you a giant plume and a heavy crown, but what is a rooster without a brood? You have made me wait but son, my patience is running out. My ears are tired of the gossip and my head aches from all the slander in the neighbourhood. They say I have in my house a woman, who will never wake and find the sun asleep. I have a little girl who trembles when it starts raining, a boy who shies away from the dialogue table but never the breakfast table. You have the appetite of a starved hyena, why don’t you have the strength of a bull to match it all?

What do you feel when you rub your groin every morning when you wake up? Is there any ego left in it? Son, why is your mouth louder than your conquests? When will I hear rumours that you are chasing the daughter of so and so? That you were seen hanging around the gates of so and so? But then, why should I bundle you with all these expectations while all you manage are rabbits when your age-mates kill buffaloes?  How should I expect you to fill my heart with joy while yours is an uncultivated bed of stones? Your life, son, is that of an outcast. You are the first at songs and dances and the last in the fields. You are the first at the breakfast table and the last to dig out the roots we cook. Till when shall he that sired you carry your crown of disgrace? How do you feel when your age-mates sit at the table with elders while you are sent out to wash the new initiates’ hands? Who is it that will be strong enough to drag you off the pedestal of ignorance? Will you ever in your life know the taste of respect or adoration? I am tired and afraid in the same breath, that you my son will be used in songs and dances to warn young men against being like you. I am afraid he that sired you will be immortalized in dances of mockery and my name will be dragged through the ashes, smoked through the blackened tobacco pipes and fed to the lips of eager rumour-mongers.

Let me cry for you when I can, because you sure can’t cry for yourself. Let me pity you when I should, because your myopic eyes cannot see what is wrong with your toes. You are a sorrow to me, son, and a shame to he that sired you, for who would want to own a dog that does not bark? Who would love to have a heifer that cannot raise her own calves?