When life rhythms doesn't actually sound no more like duduke
When you hate the sight of sunrise because you gave up already on the day unfolding since last night when you soaked your pillows drenched
When the cover of darkness is the safest place you felt at peace; far from all preying eyes, probing questions at every turn all fuelled not by care or compassion but to confirm and satisfy their thirst for stories of your failure
When your silent outer self is an exact opposite of the raging war happening in the inside, yet wrapped around a smile as you trod past memories of sweet before all but gone in the fleeting moments
When conversations became sour, chaotic and a battle of who is wrong or right, all aimed to massage a battered ego bruised and scared from previous encounters on the alter of moral justification fanned
When the voices, the only voices that you hear, that sound like songs and meaningful to you only lead to a place of darkness with no light in sight
When you look so closely, you see friends and foe and can’t tell which you should embrace for they all appear with tongues as weapons ready to strike deep with no remorse for your gut feeling
When the best wishes, decisions only echo “give up” “surrender” “you can’t make it”. “its over”, at that point, if only you can take a moment and appreciate the last breathe and realise how special you are and privileged to be able to have one more go through your nostrils
You realise if you can do that alone, all by yourself, then you are all you need to make it, make it through the challenges no matter how overwhelming because the journey to survival and happiness first starts from a willing mind and not a hopeless being
No matter what you lose, do not lose hope in God, in it, the greatest survival and success stories have emerged. Yours can be the next but only if you let hope a place in your heart.
Bless
Mama-na! Mama-na!! He will call me. I can never forget that deep baritone voice of his approaching our compound’s perimeter-walled fence made from dried millet stalks. You could not mistake the excitement in his voice; another calf, the third within a week. This meant we had extra calabash full of fresh dairy milk. More than enough for my Baba and I, and for that naughty friend of mine – Halima. She could have a cup, just one, when she comes to make her hair later in the afternoon that’s if she comes with my favorite gorrriba fruit, I know the one in their house has some ripe ones already; but definitely not Tanko, my cousin. If he wants some, he would have to go to the farm where the cows are and milk some for himself. Not even the lure of beautiful big houses, fancy cars and colourful hanging lamps lined on their streets could make me leave the calmness of Kateri my village. We were told in the village square that you could walk for long stretches and your feet will
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