Pregnancy on the Road

To street children and children born on the streets

She squeezes herself
Between two speeding cars:
An articulator truck and a new model of Mercedes
Of course she does not know the make of car it is
Neither does she care what that means
But she does care enough to chase it
Waltzing among speeding trucks
To sell to the owner
A loaf of bread
Or even a screwdriver

She turns away onto the other lane
Her thoughts concentrated on the day’s commission
Could this feed her and her crippled mother
Presently sleeping in a makeshift hut
Built within a storm drain?

But the truck driver’s thought
Is not on her
For all he sees is an empty street
So he speeds
And speeds even faster
Before that Trotro switches into his lane;
Soon she finds herself beneath his tyres
Silent
Not speaking
Not seeing
Just plain silent
This has been her only language

Blood dribbles from every available orifice
Her legs splayed
Her head mangled
Her torso embraces the road in oneness
Not as lucky as her storm drain mother
Or may be luckier

The autopsy report shows she was pregnant
A month or two or three...no one knew
The father? Another trader on the road
For in the evenings
He fights for a sleeping place for her and others
When the pavement becomes a bed
And she is obliged with many others
To pay him with her womanhood
Such is the content of the contract
Silently written and signed by them

She cares not the number of people he sleeps with
All she needs is her slice of bed
To hell with the currency in which it is paid

She has no name
She has no friend
She has no face
Her colleagues
Call her the bread seller or such and such seller
Whatever she sells at a time is her name

The other traders continue to sell
To fulfil a need in their being
But what blight fate awaits each
At every curve and turn?

Dedicated to all politicians and their kind who cheat the masses to enrich themselves.