I’m shunned by my own husband, though I’ve done nothing shady.
He thinks of me as ancient. He relishes young ladies.
He’s hated by their boyfriends for how he snatches babies.
Youth, who’s peddling you lately, so I can go out and buy you?
This precious man of mine sticks around but I’m suspicious.
It’s exhausting after a while, getting massaged every minute.
What reason is there to smile? Why must you be fictitious?
It’s not right that your missus must be the one to guide you.
You wanted this to happen, getting captured by cupid.
As smart as you are, imagine, winding up so stupid.
She blinded you with passion. You spent a whole year clueless.
Now you’re finally lucid, begging me to advise you.
So if she goes—let her go! It’s up to God in the end.
And don’t start missing her so. You only feed your heart pain.
When grief is left all alone, it makes bitterness its friend.
Laugh all you want, my friends. Trouble is what we’re tied to.
Translated from the Swahili by Richard Prins