The old women would sneer
The moment she was near.
Sweet faces wore tight scowls;
Lips would twist into snarls.
The town’s men did the same
They had a lot to say
Once she was far away;
They bowed their heads to pray.
Her peers had their own thoughts.
Their feline eyes would stalk,
Wait until she was gone
To wound her with their scorn
She reeks of misery,
Her eyes are so lonely .
Some things are more costly
Than a life of poverty.
Her womb is far too cold
To house another soul.
There’s no man in her home
Her strength is all her own.
We know she’ll never find
An ally by her side.
She placed herself too high
On a pedestal of fire.
Sometimes I wondered why
Their words were so unkind.
What was this woman’s crime?
What blight was there to hide?
I found out soon enough:
The woman ‘s only fault
Was that she always fought
The lies society taught
Women can never lead.
They’re hindered by greed.
They are just meant to breed
Sprout children just like weeds .
They said a woman’s worth
Was tied between her legs;
Women must bow their heads
And never say a word.
They said that a good wife
Would muffle her soft cries
And stifle all her sighs,
Denying she was tired.
“Imprison your girl child,
Or else she’ll become wild!
With witchcraft she’ll beguile,
Then lure young men with smiles”
I realised their disdain
Stemmed from their own self-hate.
They couldn’t imitate
What makes her stand up straight.
She earned her own money
Rewrote her life story
Built a good legacy
Was that a felony?
No matter what they said,
The goddess did not care.
She showed them with pink hair
And nails as sharp as spears.
This, to myself, I swear:
I’ll chase away my fears.
I’ll even dine with bears,
Just to become like her.
AUTHOR BIO
Araba Gyekyewa is a student at the University of Ghana whose writing explores women’s power, social inheritance, and the subtle rebellions that shape everyday life. Her poem “What They Called a Crime” reflects her interest in telling woman-centred stories.
