The Interview

She was sitting on a wooden stool

Saddle-seated just above the ground

A thin stream split the path that led to her

The waste of the day seeping by

We struggled though our appointed conversation

I was there to record her story

Of the disease that had plagued her since maidenhood

The interpreter inadequate to bridge the language divide

But the violation of shame met me through her eyes not her words

And then there was no language

No African woman on a three-legged stool

No European man sent by doctors and priests to wrench her witness from her

There were only her eyes and mine

I held my tears at bay

But hers came

And later mine came

She has rarely left me since

Those eyes

Their plea

The solitary torment