The man with a dove in his chest
walks softly through the village breeze
but in his compound,
his wife tears thunder from cotton clouds,
cooks insults in the pot of peace,
and scolds the mortar for being quiet.

He offers laughter,
she stirs storms.
He plants kindness,
she harvests thorns.
And the town calls him “weak”
as termites eat his roof
while he prays for rain.

But the man who eats war as yam
wears readiness like a sharpened blade.
His breath is iron.
His shadow commands shadows.
And his woman—
she walks like a whisper behind the wind,
her words measured like grains in a widow’s basket.

She dares not rattle his sleep.
She serves obedience like palm wine to kings.
She knows: the lion is not to be poked
when the moon is bleeding.

The wives who grow wings in such dens
either fly out and never return
or are buried with their first and only dare.

Yet the young antelopes still wander to the warrior’s hut,
laughing,
buttocks bouncing
like the breasts of a dancer
in festival rhythm,
hips swaying like palm fronds drunk on harmattan wind.
They say, “He is strong, he will protect,”
ignoring the scorch marks clawed on the compound walls.

But no one marries the rain
and complains of wetness.
No one hugs fire
and blames it for burning.

Why do they leave the stream that sings
and thirst for the flood that drowns?

Even the moon is slapped by the sky
yet returns each night to shine for it.
So too do these women chase storms
and call thunder a lullaby.

Because sometimes,
it is not the snake that charms the girl;
it is the girl who keeps the flute.