Andrew's Story

My little brother didn’t understand.

He dragged a chair, stood on it, pressed his lips to the glass frame of the picture on the wall, and whispered, "Baba, come out.”

When my mother saw this, she panicked, snatched him away so hard the chair tipped over, and his knee bruised on the floor.

She wept, holding him, but not for the bruise.

Her tears belonged to something much deeper, the unbearable weight of being asked a question no mother wants to answer. 

"Where's heaven... where's dad?" 

 

And so... twenty years later... 

Andrew says the gospel fooled him.

Growing up, it wasn't about who was, but what was.

So over and over again, he would look for certainty. 

A life he lived not because he wanted but because his dad said so.

As for him and his family, well, you know the statement.  

 

Today, Andrew is the guy in a suit posing as the pub attendant downtown.

He's been naked for rich, older women more often than he's been for his bathroom window.

He says it's survival. 

He says the world called him to that. 

That he's the one destiny wrote his story on a bad day.

So I dare you....

I dare you to call him. 

Call Andrew and tell him what he's doing is wrong. 

Tell him his good deeds will pay for his ailing mother's medication. 

Tell him not working at the club will magically put food on his table. 

Tell him...

Tell him to go home and be a good boy. 

The world is kinder to good boys. Tell him. Lie. 

Lie! 

 

And so, when you come into my mother’s house today and see that picture on the wall, don’t tell me how handsome my father was.

Don’t tell me how strong he looked in his suit. Because all I see is the day my childhood ended.

All I see is the smile of a man who left us carrying the weight of his absence.

And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll take that picture down.

Not because I’ve stopped loving him, but because sometimes survival means learning to stop staring at ghosts. No matter how hard it gets. 

© amimoh_ombogo

Rhymes and Paintings

 

Do you know what she does in her free time? 

She keeps her heart open, pens inked. 

Friends tented, all flags linked. 

Sometimes she's at school, at times... well, pool.

Says time and discipline keeps away self-fool. 

That poetry rhymes and paintings are what makes life this magical. 

© amimoh_ombogo

Ask Her... Ask Her Which Song It Is.

 

These days...

These days she walks down the streets with her headphones on. 

When asked what song is playing she'd say...

****

On Mondays I go with Ed Sheeran's 'Happier'. 

Tuesdays are for cursing out narcissists with Lauren Spencer. 

Wednesdays... well Wednesdays are for wishing for a man like my dad. Thursdays and Fridays are for a cold, kind of heartbreak he gave me. Just to smear hate on his face. (Like he even cares)

Then weekends are for self love. To remind the world that I can do it on my own. Beaches and still winds. 

****

She believes all that will help her. That... all that will make her the best she's ever been. 

© amimoh_ombogo

Happy Birthday Beautiful

 

 

 

My Dear,

If the world had a sound, then tonight… well tonight it would hum your name.
You are the poem the stars whisper when the moon is shy.
Every year you bloom again; softer, wiser, wilder: like a rose that has seen rain and still chooses to open.
Your laughter heals what silence breaks. Your eyes, gentle fires that remember light.
If time could love, it would love you first.
So here’s to your heart; still kind, still brave, still beating like the first dawn that ever believed in love.

Once again… Happy birthday to you.

 

amimoh_ombogo

Tonight

 

Tonight in Gaza... an Israeli soldier counted the bullets like prayers.
One for the father, one for the mother.
But when the gun turned to the child... even God closed His eyes.

© amimoh_ombogo

Mother's Fairytales

 

And on days like this... 

On days like this he would tell his classmates how he no longer believes in her mother's fairytales. 

That there are no monsters under his bed; just silence that even a vacuum can't call home. 

Yes... he's that the kid:

The kid who's father is still looking for a pack of milk next town. 

The one who thinks his mum can't tell him anything, he's man enough now. 

But again... tell him. 

Tell him his mother's tales are not just tales, but a way of playing the role his father should have. 

Tell him his mother is his dad now, shouldn't be so hard to understand. 

Because you don't just put down a roof to build a missing wall; you let the love do it for you. I guess that's one fairytale he ought to be believe in. 

amimoh_ombogo

Would You Turn The Other Cheek?

 

Would you turn the other cheek? 

****

I asked the sky if at all, mercy has memory, if God still counts the tears that dry on our collars.

I asked the cross if justice sleeps, for even Christ bled before He rose.

They say love your enemies, but this particular enemy feasts on the marrow of my bones.

They say pray for those who strike you, but my prayers echo against stone.

So tell me, Father, when the knife returns again and again, is my throat a sacrifice or a battlefield you have already abandoned?

Would you turn the other cheek, or would you finally clench your fists and whisper: Enough!

****

© amimoh_ombogo

Where's the love in that?

 

 

 

Where’s the love in that?

And so… the other night, the roof leaked rain into their only blanket, and the younger one asked,
“Brother, why does the world beat us when we’ve already lost?”
The elder, quiet, staring at the ceiling, whispered back,
“Maybe love forgot our address.”

And still, they woke up at dawn, walked to school barefoot, their toes memorizing every stone on the road, their notebooks thin as forgiveness.
The teacher asked them to write an essay on family, and the younger one wrote only one sentence:

“If pain is all we’re given, where’s the love in that?”

The class laughed. The teacher frowned.
But that night, when mother saw the paper, she kissed his forehead, and for a little moment there… the world remembered their address.

amimoh_ombogo

Let me

 

Sometimes...

Sometimes pain just hurts.

And sometimes the only miracle is that you're still here, when no one expected you to be. Not even you.

So if no one's ever said it before, then let me:

I believe you. 

I believe in you. 

© amimoh

What your priest never told you

 

Your priest told you that purity saves, but never said what happens when it doesn't. 

When you say no but they take it anyway. 

When you're twelve and sit in a brothel bathroom and rub off the shame off your skin like dirt. 

You were taught that heaven is for the obedient.

That silence is godliness 

That forgiveness is power

But what if forgiveness feels like letting the knife stay in?

Your priest never told you that rage can be holy too.

That screaming is a form of prayer; and sometimes the only church worth attending is the one inside your shaking chest when you finally say, "I didn't deserve any of this."

© amimoh

The girl at the cathedral

 

I once saw a girl light a candle at a cathedral.

She whispered, "I don't believe anymore, but I still hope."

And I swear, that was the most honest form of faith I've ever seen.

She wasn't waiting for heaven; she was building it out of broken dreams and dim future. 

The priest told her that pain has a reason. That it makes her stronger.

That God's timing is the best, even though the wall clock at the church doesn't work.

She said nothing, just stared at the flame like it owed her resurrection.

And when it burned low, she whispered, “If He’s listening, then He’s late.”

© amimoh

Right Through The Heart

 

You always said you'd die for this country.
But you never said you actually would.
You said it with pride, with fire in your voice, like war was a song you couldn’t wait to sing.

I watched you fold your dreams into the pockets of that army uniform, salute our mother like you were coming back, like death would respect your discipline.

But death has no manners.

They brought you home in a box. Wooden. Quiet.
Flag folded like a lie on top.

And they said the words like it was supposed to comfort us, "He died a hero".
But how do I hug a hero who isn’t here?

They didn’t let me see your body.
Said the bullet went right through the heart.
Like your heart wasn’t once the place I ran to when I broke mum’s plates.
Like your heart didn’t beat faster every time you heard her struggle to breathe at night.

I wanted to see the wound.
I needed to. To understand how a single piece of metal
could silence someone so loud, so stubborn, so... alive.

You left your boots under your bed, bro.
Still muddy from the last visit home.
I sit there sometimes, trying to smell what’s left of you.
But even your scent is fading now.

Mum still sets your plate at dinner table.
No one touches it. We just stare at it like you might walk through the door, laughing, saying, "Relax, it was just a prank".

But you’re not coming home, are you?

They gave us medals, salutes. sympathy wrapped in silence.
But they didn’t give us you.

And I know...
I know you believed in what you were fighting for.
But sometimes I wonder if the flag you served will ever remember your name the way I do;  when I whisper it into my pillow at 3 a.m., fighting tears because real men don’t cry, right? You said that.

But I do. Every day.
Because the bullet didn’t just go through your heart, bro.
It went through mine, too.

© amimoh