But son,  it’s not the same!


He stood at the entrance of the homestead, 

Finally he had brough home a woman, 

According to tradition mum will see her first, 

Before she is carried feet first into his small hut, 

Mother peeped and disappeared, 

Quickly hastily Father came, 

Wobbly legs walked fast, wrinkled hands pulled him aside, 

Fire in his eyes, 

Anger on his togue, 

Who is this,  they asked, 

She is the one,  he said, 

No she is not, they said, 

Why not,  he asked, 

It is not proper,  they said, 

But I love her, he wailed, 

You cannot marry your fathers’ agemate, they kept. 

Two moons later, 

Father brought her home,

Age same as him,

Jubilation and ululation filled the home, 

Young legs walked fast, small hands hands pulled father aside, 

Fire in his eyes, 

Anger on his togue, 

Who is this,  he asked, 

She is your other mother,  they said, 

No she is not, he wailed, 

Why not, they asked, 

It is not proper,  he said,

She is old enough,  they said, 

You cannot marry your sons’ agemate! he claimed, 

But son,  It is not the same!

 Carry

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