Mothers Day post

Posted in life in paragraphs, Motherhood on May 13, 2012 by deestinguished

My name is Ado Yiembo and i am a mother. My chouchou (French pet name for favorite and one of my baby’s many nicknames) is going to be six months old in a few weeks and for the first time in twenty something years Mothers Day makes sense to me. I know how it is written, i know on which day it falls and everytime i hear ‘ Happy mothers day to all the mothers’ i smile because i know someone recognizes that behind those droopy eyes that lack sleep to ensure that my little one has a smile on her face are windows to a big heart. Behind that body that is still recovering from the burden of childbearing is a beautiful woman. Having gone through a most uncertain pregnancy chronicled in Letter to my unborn child and a short but painful labour, i have developed great respect for mothers.

Me and Tash at four months

Me and Tash at four months

A few years ago, i had my life planned. I was to get my second degree and then get pregnant in my late twenties. Fortunately, i stumbled gracefully into motherhood. I have watched in smiles and tears as my bundle of joy grows from the little helpless baby to more of a little girl with increasing independence. I am proud of the job her father and i have done so far. Together we have navigated through tearful bathtimes when i could not give my own baby a bath to days full of laughter when she ‘reads’ with her dad, gives me a high five, learns simple commands like ‘chum’ and kisses me on the mouth, says her first ‘tatata’. The laughter days are most definitely endless.

I am proud of myself and how i am doing at motherhood. Now i identify more with my own mother’s constant worry over me. I grew up in a family where matters sexual were not up for discussion. Now i wonder if through the defeaning silence my mother still dreaded inwardly the day i would tell her (or not) that i had a boyfriend, or the day i would affirm my independence by getting a place of my own. My daughter is only so old but these things do cross my mind at times.

Her fast growing independence is a welcome peril. The little helpless girl that only used to stare at me when i spoke on phone now grabs it whenever she sees it. Not because she wants to talk but because she wants to eat it. I know soon its going to be my jewellery, my make up, my car.

I am sorrowful for the women that are bitter, resentful, rude, negative or unappreciative towards their mothers. I read a story about a boy that grew up with such negative feelings about their mother because she had one eye and ’embarrased’ him only to find out in her death that she had given up one of her eyes so that her son could grow up with two. He must have hated himself a myraid times more than he had resented his mother. You only have one mother and whether she has one leg, one eye, a funny face, she is the one God chose to bear you so love and appreciate her.

I would like my baby to grow up to appreciate me….to celebrate me in public and appreciate me in private. To show me off when i am young and beautiful and when i am old and senile. To love me when i am brave and when fear takes over me, to listen to me when i am boring and obey me because it is the right thing to do. I want her to trust me enough to express her opinions to me respectfully. I will fail miserably on some days and be overwhelmingly succesful on others. Sometimes i will require her in the kitchen when she wants to go shopping with her friends. I will not like some of her friends and i will deny her permission to the party on the next street, I will expect her to dress respectfully and I will teach her to have good manners. I hope she will trust my judgement but make good decisions without my influence. I will expect her to be financially savvy yet I will still give her pocket money,I will raise her to love and respect God….to give Ceaser what belongs to Ceaser and to God what belongs to God. When she goes wrong, I will accept her with open arms and soothe her wounds. I would like to be her confidante, her bestfriend. I will make many mistakes but mostly, i will just be a mother.

I am glad that my partner appreciates me and thinks it takes a brave woman to be a mother. Even if I were not, I would still celebrate myself along with all the mothers. So to all the mothers, today is not just a day for others to applaud us. It is a day for us to take a step back and look at the accomplishments we have made as a result of our own relationships with our mothers. It is a day for us to count our blessings and achievements that have been influenced by the ever present, ever supporting hands of the women that birthed us. Love them like your only (because they are). Happy mothers day especially to my mother whose shoulders are wet with my tears in low times and whose ululations celebrate me when i am at my best.



Posted in Life in Paregraphs, Love, Poetry with tags on April 24, 2012 by deestinguished

I saw him….playing silly games,
and i was six.
Sometimes he wanted to play father,
when i was mother.
Or hold the rope,
and let me skip.
Other times he sat with others,
and made fun of me.
I cried and hid behind curtains,
and hems of mother’s skirts,
Because my emotions,
too young to comprehend.
Was he friend or fiend?

I saw him again.
And i was thirteen,
Almost a woman.
And it was showing.
When the tiny mounds appeared,
and my chest began to hurt.
He teased me again.
Yet he too had bumps on his face,
and a croak for a voice.

We parted ways four more years.
I was away where they wore matching clothes.
And slept in metal squeaking beds.
And he never appeared there.
I never thought of him.
Only saw him in books.
And read about the things he could do.
Like make babies grow in my tummy,
love me like his only,
yet hurt me like his enemy.

Then one day he held me in his arms.
When the four years were gone.
And i was in another institution.
Gently like the last raw egg, then squeezed harder.
Till i could take it no more.
Left me raw.
And i freed myself from his hold.

Now i am done with institutions.
I wake up in the morning,
jewelled and made up….adorned.
And leave to make money….my own.
He still comes and goes.
Squeezes me a little more till i cringe.
And i fear he might break me.
There are no more tears to shed here.
I am a woman…..grown.
No institutions.
No hem of mother’s skirts.
So before i break gradually,
in his arms. Fiercely.
Before my heart slams shut.
I will let him go along.

©Ado Yiembo.

Copy and pass ”I SAW HIMaround to your hearts content but always post my copyright notice above correctly both as courtesy and as a legal necessity to protect any writer. Thank you.



Posted in Lamentations, Life in Paregraphs, Love, Poetry on November 11, 2011 by deestinguished

I miss him,

When he wasn’t too exhausted after work,

Remembered that these lips were for him,

Held me as i slept,

and i lay upon his chest,

Because he didn’t smell of sweat,

Having let the day his strength exhaust.


I miss him,

Without a single care,

Smiles with none to compare,

When we could talk till dawn,

Fuss and laugh about nothing.


I miss him,

No worries, no woes,

no medical bills and electricity receipts,

No landlord at the gates,

No insatiable people called family or  school fees to pay.


I miss him,

Noisy Friday evenings,

Crazy Saturday afternoons,

and quiet hungover Sundays.

When we drank all night and forgot to give thanks,

Till our fingers trembled.

and intoxicated bodies rejected nutrition.

I miss him,

Now on his forehead are furrows,

For he constantly worries,

Thinks about work and bills,

His fingers still tremble,

Not after a night of fun or passion,

But because they need,

A burning stick to calm his nerves.


Now he is angry,

No longer talks and laughs about nothing,

We fuss,fight about everything,

Now he is no longer ticklish, irritable,

His complements rare as his smile.


Now i wonder if he still thinks i am beautiful,

Or my place has been taken by offspring,

I wonder if he still stares when i walk away and sway my hips,

If he still thinks my breasts move in rhythm with my stride,

If my smile still makes him stare

and he tells friend and foe that i am his.


Now i wonder if he watches me sleep,

or sees me in his dreams,

I wonder if he looks forward to coming home,

So he can see me,

Feel my moist lips,

Caress my naked breasts,

Bask in the warmth of my thighs,

Or sighs when the clock strikes five,

and only comes home so he can rest.

I miss him.

©Ado Yiembo.

Copy and pass ”I MISS HIMaround to your hearts content but always post my copyright notice above correctly both as courtesy and as a legal necessity to protect any writer. Thank you.


Posted in Uncategorized on September 13, 2011 by deestinguished

I am writing this to you child, because people say that the choosiness, and the fact that sometimes i don’t want to eat, and I want to throw up when i brush my teeth, are the first signs that you are alive in me. I am writing this to you because science says that my missing periods, my growing tummy and the increasing fluttering movements inside it, are signs that you are growing inside me.

I have cried a lot out of mixed emotions, because all the dreams I ever had seem like a mirage when I think of your coming. sometimes I feel there is so much I needed to do, so much more I needed to see before the coming of you, for all the people I might have disappointed. I have cried for the fear of drowning myself in you. I have  read a lot trying to fathom what is truly happening inside me….but no amount of research will ever be able to explain this bond….. and I will not let my fear break you, I will learn to be enough for you and even more.

In my sleep I dream that you stretch your hand to touch mine. Science says that you have no hands yet but i could swear i feel your little limbs scratch and pinch sometimes. I know I feel your legs stretch in anticipation for the day you will have a little more space to kick, a few more sounds to listen to, a few more textures to feel, a few more people to keep you company, and my voice, child, I want to see the first smile on your face when you hear me say I love you…..and the grip of your little hand on my index finger as I look into your bright eyes and vow to always protect you.

It must be lonely inside there, sometimes its worse out here. when you have billions of people around you yet you still feel alone. I used to feel like that sometimes, but not anymore. Now I have you, and be assured that you have me. And no matter how cold it may get out here I comfort myself in the knowledge that I have to be strong for you.

It might be better in there, the oblivion to hate, injustice and fear, the naivety to love, life and the nauseating collage of grown up emotions must be hypnotizing. I have seen those magical photos of you and you seem to be in a trance. But you have my word, that when you are born into this world where grief, tears, fears and strife coexist in a disgusting melange as neighborly foes, I will be here to shield you. When the doctor slaps your naked rear, and you gasp for your first breathe of air, you must cry in joy. For in this world that drowns in abuse, rape, manipulation, impunity and injustice, I will always be here when you need me.

When I wake up in the wee of the night and let hot tears burn my face, I cry for the uncertainty of having you yet not knowing you. I do not know if you will have your father’s ability to climb over the highest mountain without knowing how, or my ability to worry about stumbling over the smallest of pebbles. I wonder if you will have his ability to smile in the face of misfortune, or my ability to drown myself in tears, ink and words. His slowness to anger, or my ability to express dissatisfaction in the loudest of tones. I wonder if you will become like me, wanting to conquer the world yet not knowing where to start or like him, simply wanting to heal the world by reading untold stories in the innocence of children’s eyes. I wonder if people will find peace in your eyes, or vile at your sight….but my faith tells me you will be kind, healthy, blessed by men and angels, wealthy, wise and you will leave a signature in form of kindness and a giving heart wherever you go. And eventually when you leave this place, you will have blessed more people than you will have met…. you will surely be in our hands, like arrows in the hands of a mighty man Psalms 127:4 ….our best creation.

Your father anticipates your coming, he already has names for you. I cannot bring myself to limiting you to a few words, confining you to twenty six (or twenty seven in his alphabet) letters in repetition to give you identity. they are just not enough to express what you are, what you will be.

These dreams i have of you, sometimes they haunt me. But i do not want them to go, because they creatively design my desires for you, describe my fears for you and confirm my confessions for the love i have fostered for you.

I cannot wait to teach you that you are a reflection of the Creator: Just, Ruler,Forgiving, lover of all. I cannot wait to see this miracle of love, to meet this price of sacrifice, for now child, I would give my life for yours. I cannot wait to affirm that these prenatal fears, these midnight tears are unnecessary when I hold you in my arms as you scream as i have taught you, in the joy of the warmth of your mother’s arms, in the embrace of your father’s pride as you call me mother in a language uncomprehended, your language….a pure tongue of uncorrupted angels like you. I am going into this monologue child, because I love you.

Yours truly,


©Ado Yiembo.

Copy and pass ”TO MY UNBORN CHILDaround to your hearts content but always post my copyright notice above correctly both as courtesy and as a legal necessity to protect any writer. Thank you.




Posted in Life in Paregraphs, Poetry on April 11, 2011 by deestinguished

Hush! For when you speak of how i stumbled and fell,

It does not make me weak,

It makes me stand tall.

In fact, shut up!

Aren’t your buttocks sore?

for all the times you sit and murmur,

About how you hate my hair color,

And i should wear my skirt a little lower.

On second thought, don’t!

I intimidate you, don’t i?

Speak again of how I’m broke,

And i love a bloke.

Spit in pathways so when i pass,

i can see how much i disgust, you.

Don’t you also know that besides the other loan,

I’ve been to the pawn,

Given up that expensive necklace,

Some furniture perhaps.

Wipe that silly smile off your face!

Don’t you so wish,

You could slash, My head,

And carry it around in your purse,

So when you meet to sip cheap coffee,

And engage in some useless talk.

To wag lazy tongues,

Till you run out of breathe,

And take sips of water in between.

You may burst in fits,

Slap backs and snap fingers,

Propose a toast perhaps,

Celebrate my woes.

In case you miss something to talk about,

Write a speech on how i tried and failed,

On how i fought battles and lost,

While you sat in cowardly counsels,

Growled and showed blunt fangs,

Away from the arena, like frightened dogs,

Tails between legs,

And murmured how i should have thrown better blows,

Read harder,invested my money better.

Chosen a better mate.


Don’t stop friend,

My misfortunes fuel you,

My failures drive you,

My sorrows keep you going,

And you, the stab wound on my back,

The blood on the knives,

With your fingerprints,

They quench my thirst.

Make me want to feed your hungry tongues,

Salivating for more fresh topics,

To exaggerate,

an blow beyond proportion.

On second thought, Don’t stop!

©Ado Yiembo.

Copy and pass ”HUSH!around to your hearts content but always post my copyright notice above correctly both as courtesy and as a legal necessity to protect any writer. Thank you.


To have a good enemy, choose a friend, he knows where to strike.

DIANE DE POLTIERS 1499-1566 Mistress of Henri II of France.


Posted in Uncategorized on March 24, 2011 by deestinguished

They come at night,

Swathed in dark clothes and combat.

Brandishing weapons, sharpened and of might.

I only have my bare hands,

Hardened and senile from years of toiling,

knowing this day would come.

Wishing it never did.

and i hide my seed.

Shelter them from the painful truth,

that this is the world i bore them to.

and i plead for their lives and mine too.

But there is too many a foe.

With only a single evil cause.

Sons of the devil!

And they push me aside.

Part my legs. Not gently as he did,

before he left us behind.

Brutally as though i never lived.

Hold each limb in place with a strong hand.

Hands that stink of young women’s blood,

with tears of old women, salted.

and they rip my clothing,

Beloved sons of the devil!

And they violate my woman,

laugh and mock my curves, depressions and bumps.

I bleed loudly,

my heart screams silently,

Helpless, worthless.

Till i can bleed no more,

Till the tears run dry,

In a land with plenty a reason to cry.

Let them not get my daughters i pray.

Yet they still do and i hide my face,

from their deafening pleas,

Yet i close my heart to their painful cries.

I am ashamed.

For i cannot hold their little hands.

Or prevent them from touching their budding breasts,

Sons of the devil!

And I cannot hear them call me mother,

I cannot taste their warm tears,

Caress. My naked body.

and i cannot one last time, smell their innocence.

Before they take away their chastity.

and i am ashamed,

cold, unmoved, dead.

Eyes still open.

Tears streaming.

and i ask in death, as i did in life,

”Sons of Africa, why do you destroy your women?”

©Ado Yiembo.

Copy and pass ”Sons of the devil” around to your hearts content but always post my copyright notice above correctly both as courtesy and as a legal necessity to protect any writer. Thank you.


Posted in Life in Paregraphs, Uncategorized on March 17, 2011 by deestinguished

In my next life, I will prove that a rose, by any other name, would not smell as nice. For those who are interested in how I will achieve this , well it is easy. I will be the first person to discover a rose, call it a bad name, say fichirenje, and see if anyone will ever buy a bouquet of fichirenjes for his girlfriend). A rose is a rose because it is called a rose. A girl, on the other hand, is a girl because of what she does and say.There are things that a girl will say or do – and most guys will agree with me – that will disqualify her from being one. I will look at a few of these in the paragraphs that follow:

There is absolutely nothing wrong with a girl who loves drinking. (notice I did not use the words “a girl who drinks” because some do it because of peer pressure and not necessarily because they love the drink.) By drinking, I am also not talking about milk (which has a thing in common with alcohol in that it also does not solve someone’s problems.) Nothing wrong with a girl who is passionate about a sport or a football team such as Arsenal. (most of them support Arsenal because of Cesc Fabregas. It is just a matter of time before they notice the same team has Sagna!) We all know why girls watch Rugby. It is the same reason why guys watch women Tennis! Nothing wrong with a girl who loves Reggae. By reggae, I mean the hardcore roots reggae: Don Carlos, Israel Vibration, Greggory Isaacs etc and not Glen Wash-Hii-Thong and these other kids who came to spoil the good old reggae! It is OK for a girl to love ONE of these three things: Alcohol, Sports, and Reggae. If you love two, well, it is forgivable, no one is perfect. We have a big problem if and when a girl decides it is ok to love all three! The same way a guy should not love shopping, cooking and applying make up!

A friend of mine was once interested in a chick, till he saw her smoking! It does not matter how much I like you, or how much beautiful or endowed with sitting allowances or other front supportive paraphernalia, if I see you smoking anything whose side effect is the immediate release of smoke from your mouth or nostrils, my brain automatically disqualifies you from being girl. The only excuse you have for smoking is if and only if you are very drunk and the boys you have as company decide to smoke, one (preferably the one you wish would chips funga you on that and only that night) offers you a puff and you are 100% sure your current boyfriend and any (all, actually) other future boyfriends are out of town. Do not forget to be careful that no one is doing anything with a phone. You do not want evidence in the form of a photo to resurface after you have denied to your boyfriend who was told that you smoked on a day he was out of town!

One of the easiest way in knowing the gender of a person is listening to how (and at lesser times what) he has to say about something. The other day, there was a war of words between Ciara and Rihanna on twitter. Less than 24 hours later, the girl (Rihanna), on realizing he was not going to win, raised the white flag in surrender and the boy (in Ciara) accepted the apology. Ciara’s insults were not girlish and Rihanna’s girlish responses were not hurting Ciara! My point? A salutation such as “Nijea Mbuyu” is a preserve for the male species. A girl who uses it is unworthy of being one! A guy will be forgiven for telling another, “m*l*y* wewe” while a girl will be stoned in thought if it is discovered she contemplated using those words to someone, deserving or not! If I have to look for a sheng dictionary to assist me to decipher a sentence you have used, you had better be a boy! The list of things that a girl can do that will result in her being banished from the female species is not exhaustive, I just decided to share the ones above and hope that girls will respect their dignity as girls!

Disclaimer: This post is in because i agree with SOME not ALL of the views expressed herein.