calendar of tears

October has arrived with rent overdue, 

And September's wages are nowhere in view. 

The landlord needs money, my stomach needs food, 

Clean water to drink, just the basics of good.

My boss has her money, her meals and her ease, 

While I count the hours, begging for peace. 

She sleeps with her options, I wake with my dues, 

She chooses her comforts, I face what I lose.

Twenty-five thousand shillings a month, 

A figure so small, yet my needs are a mountain. 

An onion salary, that is what I call mine,

I look at the figure and tears fill my eyes.

Too much month at the end of the money, 

No laughter at home, no pockets of plenty. 

The salary is peanuts, the struggle is real, 

And hunger has needs that no promise can heal.

I ask for one thing, a date I can trust, 

A payday that is fixed, a promise that is just. 

Choose the last Friday, choose the twenty-eighth, 

Choose the first of the month, give the date its place.

I need to know clearly the day I will be paid, 

So rent can be settled, so meals can be made. 

A calendar matters to someone like me,

Uncertainty charges a fee I cannot meet.

My March salary came on March twenty-seven, 

At eighteen twenty-four, a small breath from heaven. 

February's wages came March seventh that year, 

At eighteen forty-nine, after waiting in fear.

April was paid on May first, at thirteen forty-two,

May came on June fourth, twenty-oh-ten, too. 

June came on July seventh, sixteen twenty-six, 

July came August seventh, seventeen fifty-eight.

August came September second, twenty-oh-four; 

Now October tenth, and September's still owed. 

These dates tell a story no payslip can hide, 

My income arrives with no schedule to guide.

I started in February, ready to serve, 

Giving my labour, deserving my worth. 

“Remind me in three months, we will discuss your pay,”

Those words gave me hope for a better payday.

Three months came and I did as she said, 

I raised the discussion, remembering her pledge. 

Then came the explanation, the company had loans, 

As if I could eat debts, as if rent were a stone.

The increment vanished beneath that excuse, 

While my own obligations kept tightening the noose. 

A promise was offered, the increase never came, 

And I carried the burden, still earning the same.

Twenty-five thousand shillings, converted to dollars, 

Still cannot silence the needs of a worker. 

The currency changes, the problem remains, 

A wage too small for the weight of my strains.

I wonder what makes it so easy to delay, 

The little I need for my labour each day. 

Does she see an employee, a person, a soul, 

Or merely a worker whose needs she can postpone?

I feel despised, as though my needs are too small, 

As though my rent and my hunger mean nothing at all. 

Perhaps she feels differently, I cannot see inside, 

Yet the unpaid September speaks loudly today.

She has money for food, I am left to go hungry. 

She has choices to make, my choices are empty. 

Her kitchen has options, my cupboard has space. 

I wait for my wages, with worry on my face.

And this is the part that cuts deepest of all,

The money I earn cannot answer my calls. 

I work for a living, yet living feels far, 

As though I must beg for the wages I earn.

Three million shillings in company reserves, 

If that money is available, some planning it deserves. 

At ten per cent net, the arithmetic shows, 

Three hundred thousand yearly, if the investment income flows.

Twenty-five thousand monthly, three hundred thousand a year,

That income alone could cover twelve salaries here. 

A year's worth of wages, from income accrued, 

Could help pay a worker for labour pursued.

Of course, real cash flow needs more than a rate,

There are risks and obligations that businesses face. 

Yet planning for payroll should rank among the first, 

For a worker's unpaid wages can turn life into thirst.

A company can borrow, can budget, can plan, 

Can weigh its commitments and do what it can. 

Then why must the worker absorb all the strain, 

While waiting for wages already earned through pain?

I am angry, Abba-Father, I will speak it aloud. 

I am tired of pretending, of swallowing the cloud. 

I feel that my boss has forgotten my plight, 

While I fight for the basics from morning to night.

I do not want riches delivered by chance, 

Just wages on time, with a fairer advance. 

I want to buy food without calculating each bite, 

And sleep without wondering how rent will be right.

I want water to drink, a room of my own, 

A little security every Sunday, when I walk home alone. 

These are not grand ambitions, no palace, no throne,

They are ordinary needs every worker should own.

So here stands October, the tenth day arrived, 

A worker still waiting, still trying to survive. 

September's salary remains in arrears, 

While rent grows more urgent and hunger draws near.

May those who hold power remember this truth,

A worker has needs that do not wait for your mood. 

A salary is earned, it is not a kind deed. 

Paying on time is respect for a need.

An onion salary, a calendar of tears, 

A promise postponed, a growing list of fears. 

I give my day's labour, I ask for what is due. 

My time has a value. My life does, too.