Village boy Impressions

I do not love you for a reason Because reasons can shift with time– not for your beauty that may fade, nor your youth that would pass.   I love you in the sure way one recognizes home– not a startling discovery, but always a quiet certainty.     You ask what I see in you— but love is not a checklist. If I could name one thing, I would fear to lose it.   So I love you not only for what you are today, but the way your heart rises to meet mine without pretenses, without holding back.   There is a softness in you, the world does not always reward– but I see it.   The way you give, without keeping score, the way you care, even when it costs you, That is the kind of strength I trust my life with. N-kaachenera.   You are quiet, I am not. Where I rush, you are steady. And somewhere between your calm and my fire, we meet. And in that moment, I’m home.  

It was my great aunt who spoke on many evenings, when the sun had finished its arguments with the day, and shadows gathered us children at her feet. She told of hidden truths wrapped in simple tales– of a little bird, sweet in her tweeting, bright-feathered and quick with life, who made her home beneath a roof of clay, with two tiny lives, her quiet bundle of joy. Below, the man spoke loudly of the morrow: I will mend this roof, he said, I will tear it down and raise it anew. And the bird, hearing death in the language of men, flew in trembling circles to the ear of God . He will do it, she cried, he will come with the hands of ruin– my children cannot yet meet the sky. And God, patient as time itself, asked only, What exactly did this man say? And when the little bird had told Him, He answered gently, Rest. Tomorrow will not obey him . And so it was. Again and again, the man built his future with his tongue, and the little beauty on a wing lived in fear for her y...

The world hit a wall in the spring of that year, School gates were shut, every breath tasted fear. Classrooms stood silent, the playgrounds were still, And private in teaching meant pockets were nil. They halved what he earned just to keep afloat, And he gripped tight the wheel of his shaking boat. But she that he loved didn’t see the world’s pain, She saw some dark secret; she swore he must feign. She drank in whispers from a false pulpit on high, Traded their sworn truth for a prophetic lie. With three little children and chaos within, She opened the door and ushered the devil in— It wasn’t long till he was living a lie, He watched his name slowly wither and die. Her words painted him guilty all over the town, While he fought just to keep from going down. The mistake was not COVID or the money they took, Her heart was a field where all rumours took root. Where trust could not live, and love could not stay, And fault-finding habits just pushed all respect away. But t...