He placed me in the arms of a woman
who carried the weight of the sky on her shoulders,
in a far away village, deep in the belly of the Kenyan highlands.
I was the echo of her heartbeat,
the soft hum of her sacrifice,
and she was my first fortress.
Nineteen years she held me,
nineteen years of turning wounds into wisdom,
wrapping me in layers of courage like worn blanket stitched with hope.
And then she let me go.
into a world that smelled like iron and expectations,
where hands held hammers instead of grace.
The world, with its jagged edges,
whittled me down to my bones,
tore the safety from my skin,
and it hurt, my God, it hurt
but I did not break.
I stood,
even when the wind seemed stronger than my spine
and my feet felt like feathers
I stood.
I fought with trembling hands,
my voice shaky but sure.
Learnt to carry others on my back,
just like my mother carried me,
just like God whispered in the wind,
You are stronger than you think.
Now, this daughter of the village
stands unbent,
a storm with skin.
A map drawn from scars,
dripping hope with every step.
I have learned that pain is not a prison,
it’s a passage.
And I am not finished, not yet!.
There is still more of me being made,
but as I walk, I leave behind light.
I grow, and those around me bloom.
I hope, and those around me rise.
I carry others,
just like my mother carried me.
And maybe,
they will learn to carry too.
fnj
