So just like corn,
We were buried in Black wombs.
And just like the warring weeds,
Our efforts were watered by willing hands.
But when the rains were heavy,
Umbrellas couldn’t shield our planters backs.
We were beaten by the hostile storm,
And trampled upon by the angry pour.
The harvesters were the only ones who could come to help.
We managed to smile when they arrived.
Then they fed us with organic soils,
And watched us grow into healthy plants.
They never went away,
They never hurt our leaves either.
When we were ripe,
They plucked us home.
So, we became their food,
But also the roots of their daily vomits.
We reminded them of the planters who never lived to eat.
And they shared the stories of their beautiful hopes.
Since then, we grew to believe that survival isn’t only about living,
But living to conquer.
Even when we have resting beds in our harvesters hearts,
We do not forget that the planters gave us a reason to live.
Now, we’re strong and able,
Let the souls of our planters rest in peace…
But let the efforts of our harvesters never be in vain.
©Tydale Bassey Abigail