Somalian Soliloque

poem about famin, foodaid and war in Africa

Somalian Soliloquy 


She doesn’t contemplate her life,
the urge to live has gone.
Dull hair, dull eyes and wrinkled skin
deny her youthful age.

She moves by instinct, not by will
since death took her third son.
No hand extends to swat the swarms
of flys round mouth and eyes.

As a perpetual refugee,
from camp to camp she’s moved.
A victim early on in life
to men she has not loved.

The babe she clutches in her arms
emits an anguished cry.
She’s starving, it is no surprise,
her breasts hang slack and dry.

The drought that has engulfed the land
is not the only cause,
donor fatigue, logistics and
the constant, senseless wars.

The fighting escalates again.
She neither knows nor cares,
for her it has been ever thus
throughout her twenty years.

The food aid won’t get through today.
Someone has mined the road.
It was her turn, statistically,
she’ll not be missed or mourned.

Sandy Wetton                                        Cape Town, South Africa July 2003