Nangekhe.

Nangekhe, the little one of my mother;

we call her small-

every whim of hers gets us on toes.

When Nangekhe coughs, a glass of water is at her reach,

to water her dry throat;

a throat that never spares us when mama returns.

Nangekhe is papa's heart,

her shrill gets papa on twos as if he's hurt-

retorting as though the eagle has snatched his chicken.

This beautiful Nangekhe, small and treasured-

like a lone quail's egg.

Yes, little Nangekhe always a guest at papa's table.

She shares in papa's plate; we?

our stomachs grambles-

 salivates for dinner's remains.

Nangekhe supervises our bathing,

and to mama she narrates, 

how we throw water-

to escape cold that pierces like a sharp needle.

Today in turns we carry Nangekhe to church,

holding our breathe we do,

for Nangekhe we must be strong-

to have a better day before the creator.

© Bunguswa Brian ™