Nyanken Hne

My husband, Nyanken Hne,
like galo, waving up Dolokeh’s hills.
The storms cannot touch him;
they fear him like a wife fears a jealous man.
The young girls with their shining eyes,
whose lashes wave, stand off the road
when Nyanken Hne passes.
Their pails of water fall off their heads
to see Nyanken Hne pass by.

My husband, Nyanken Hne,
who came amidst polished smiles, long,
dark, chalked faces, bowing when he passes.
Nyanken came, dancing my way,
in a war dance, shining like ebony.
How I love to look at him dancing
to giant drums beating in the dusky wind.
How Nyanken passed them all by
while they called him with swinging
oiled, brown arms, dancing.
But Nyanken chose only me.

Nyanken has said I am the only one.
He has broken taboos, has shattered
their good dreams.
All these years, Nyanken has said, no,
I am the only one.
When I rise, Nyanken is there,
like the mighty, rising Sebo.
Unlike our townsmen whose eyes
never quit hunting, Nyanken has only me.
When I sit, he looks down into my eyes,
and they all stand and stare.