Camp Wife, Farmer Wife

I’m a sticky camp wife but still a farm wife.

It is early morning and the sun is playing over the horizon. I’m trapped in miserable poverty. I’m making a fire, the kids have to eat. I have one cup of cornmeal, I will share. I am a farmer’s wife.

Today I have to plan again for something to eat, how to make it? I know I can, I must because I am a farmer’s wife.

The children complain because it is cold. I wrap them up in my old sweater, nice and cozy. I will later leave my old one torring and knit them socks, because I can I am a farmer.

Today is laundry day. Our women in the camp share the long green soap in pieces, each one gets a piece. We scrub and soap the laundry in the water while our women pray each on their own, I know what they pray for… I do it myself…. for a washing machine. Where are those days? I quickly realized again that I must finish, I must, I am a farmer’s wife and I can.

The road is getting long, I’m swallowing my dry throat. Finally I’m at the traffic light. I am standing. I don’t say anything in hopes that someone can see the raging hunger and concern in my eyes. If only I can get enough for a packet of soup and one bread….. or maybe…… just a loaf of bread. They don’t even look at me. Today my courage is in my old broken shoes. I must keep trying. I just have to get something, I’m a farm woman then.

Today has been a good day. I was able to get a bread, a packet of chicken and a bag of cornmeal. I need to hurry home, home… Our little house, a sink built that makes the heat unbearable and sends the winter’s cold deep through my bones. I have to pick up pieces of wood on the way because in the camp there is nothing. With food and wood I walk vining on, my powers are few but I can, I am a farmer’s wife.

The children’s dirty faces brighten up when they see me. Little arms wrap me around. They are so happy to see me. My heart is crying, I also want to give them the world just like all the other moms. I must be able to, I am then a farmer.

Time to make a fire, the bath water must finish. Then it is time to make food. I bath my children in a bucket. They splash and play and laugh, they do not know what it is to bath in a real bathtub. Tonight they eat nicely and there is porridge for breakfast. My feet are swollen and by the time I get the kids in bed, a mattress on the floor, I can feel my tears just pouring. I look at my angel faces and pray that one day they will forgive me for this poverty. They’ll, I guess, I’m a farm lady then.

Finally I’m done it’s late night. I look up to my Father and pray for deliverance from these evil forces that want to fold me, I can’t give up. Tomorrow I will do everything again, I can…….. I have to…… Because I remain a farmer’s wife.

Credit Given by a camp woman, a farmer woman, South Africa.