Birth Control (a poem)

There was no
counting of the fertile days nor
choice of what colour, flavour, texture
of condom to use
whenever uncle's unrepressed libido would trigger his instincts
straight past his brain
up her skirt and in-between her thighs.

No good manners, no foreplay, nice words or a sweet crescendo
in his rough handling of her body against the cold bedroom wall;
careful only not to leave a trace of the act
on her school uniform,
the one he had bought
with his government job salary,
the one she was paying back
with the freshness of her 14 years.

14 years old this world-class expert
in the code of silence:
no tears, no screams, not even a counselling session in which to admit
the truth to herself...
Until...

...the truth grew bigger, and started to emerge
from under her school uniform
the one she had been repaying in installments
whenever her uncle was in town
before he was transferred to the North,
before she started getting beaten by her father
for getting impregnated
by God-knows-whom
for disregarding the sacrificial generosity
of her uncle, who
was paying for her school fees
so that she could have a better future.