THE LAST CRY (A Short Story) by Aondosoo Andrew Labe

Sevhage Reviews

ON SAMBE market days, when the sun aims fiery arrows at the clouds that froth in the blue skies, we sit under the big Neem tree close to St. Winifred’s. This white dispensary is the only thing the White missionaries left behind after they seized our gods and exported them to British museums. Now the Fulani herdsmen have come with their gods taking over our farmlands. We are now running like midwives finding Camwood leaves for women in labour. We are called women. And Mama told me that when a man is called a woman, he should better dig his grave.

“A woman is a sheaf forgotten in the farm when the harvest is good; only remembered when famine comes. Women are small hamlets while men are big cities. Women billow like sails in the winds of men. Don’t be a woman, son.” She said and I felt like the…

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