The rains of December had started,
Pouring in one at a time,
Time after time,
The millet-garden was getting bad,
With ugly, ferocious attacks from birds,
Especially Enkwenje,
That yellow-big peak deep voiced bird..
It chose young maize,
As others feasted on the ripening millet..
Women, met in collective labour,
To harvest one garden at a time,
The power of social capital..
Men did little,
Except grazing, and grazing they did,
Till mid night,
When night dancers begun to impress..
As young boys, we ferried the harvest,
In the sisal sacks, on our tired bikes,
Often eavesdropping on cofessions,
Confessions of love or failed love..
Like this woman, Mweishiki Atyo,
Whose man never touched her,
Despite the bumper harvest,
Was it becouse of her name?
Every woman in the field wondered,
First they chuckled..
As they, in unison loughed,
Hahahahaaaaahaaaa,
We too, loughed,
Unknowingly,
Ignoring the birds,
These millet birds..
To also harvest..
Women in the millet-harvest ,Of Rwebishekye..
