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

If I Ever Become a Song

 

And when you listen closely...

The lyrics of her song talks about midnight dates, a lover who left without goodbye, and sometimes, a boy who said forever but meant only five months.

She says it’s just a song, but I’ve seen her close her eyes at that second verse; like it touches a memory

she promised herself she had buried. 

She says it’s just a song, but skips it when she’s happy, and plays it on repeat when she’s not.

Like it knows the parts of her I’m still not allowed to touch.

She says it’s just a song, but every time it ends, she looks like someone who just said goodbye all over again.

So I stopped asking. I just sit beside her in silence, listening to the ghosts sing through her lips, and wondering if I’m ever going to be a song she keeps without hurting.

© amimoh

' Give the act a name or it never happened '

 

Which is to say...

Nobody comes running to young boys who cry 'rape.'

When I told my brother about it, he also asked why I never fought back.

As if fists are stronger than fear.

As if silence isn’t the only language trauma speaks.

The station officers demanded I give the act a name or it never happened; and so I sang 'rape' that day, with a cracked voice and trembling hands, but they only heard noise, not truth.

When my sister's seat at the dinner table got frequently unoccupied, nobody thought of it.

When the class diva turned all her teases to constant tears and started missing classes, they never asked why.

Instead they invented new ways of making themselves laugh.

Called her dramatic. Called her broken. Never called her loved.

Nobody cares about that eighteen year-old who cries rape.

Nobody 😢

Not even the mirror that watches him fall apart in silence every night.

© amimoh 

Eden Never Closed

 

We met by the river, where the sun baptized the water with gold and you, in your linen dress, was one sermon I never heard in any church.

Back then, love was reckless.

We kissed like God wasn't watching.

You laughed like the wind owed you answers, and I touched you like Eden never closed its gates.

We were young then, so young, we thought passion could pay rent, and poetry could feed a home.

You brought me flowers you stole from graves, and said, “Dead people don’t mind sharing beauty.”

I laughed. I laughed so hard I forgot we were poor.

We were hungry, for bread, for touch, for something sacred.

So we carved religion into our bedsheets, worshipped each other’s bodies in ways that would shame the saints.

I traced verses on your naked back with my tongue.

You whispered ‘hallelujahs’, You and I know that never reached heaven.

The neighbors said we were a mess.

They were right.

We fought like thunder.

Loved like wildfires.

Apologized with bodies, not words.

You’d break things just to see if I’d fix them.

I’d bleed silence just to win.

Still, every night you crawled back; hair a battlefield, heart an altar.

And I welcomed you like wine into a church of sinners.

Now look at us.

Strangers passing in the street, pretending we don’t remember the smell of each other’s perfume.

You with your new perfume.

Me with my practiced smile.

Both of us wearing regret like Sunday best.

But I still visit that river.

Still write your name in dirt.

Still whisper your name, every time I remember how we loved, when we were young.

© amimoh_ombogo

Tell Me I'm Wrong

 

But the thing is...

Siblings don’t stare at each other like that in the dark.

Don’t accidentally fall asleep on the same pillow and wake up wishing they hadn’t.

There were nights I prayed the feeling would go away.

That the love would shrink into something godly, respectable, explainable.

But it never did.

You kissed me once.

Under the jacaranda tree where no one could see.

And said, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

But I couldn’t.

After that, you grew cold.

Not angry. Just... distant.

Like you were burying something holy.

Because it didn’t fit the language people gave it.

You started dating a guy from church.

And I clapped like a sibling should, a 'brother' should.

But my hands bled, quietly; in my pocket.

Years passed.

You married him.

And when I stood beside you in a tuxedo.

Everyone said, “That’s his adopted sister.”

I smiled. And swallowed the truth again.

© amimoh_ombogo

We told them

 

I remember the day you found the letter.

The name your mother gave you written like a myth.

We didn’t speak for a week.

You were scared of choosing blood over bond.

But I followed you to the bus station anyway.

Carried the bag you didn’t pack properly.

And watched as your real siblings cried over a brother they'd never deserved.

You came back six days later; angry, hollow-eyed, ashamed.

“I’m not your sister” you whispered.

And I said, “Then what are you?”

You looked at me like a secret you couldn't keep.

Then kissed me like the stars had always known we weren’t made from the same dust.

So we told them.

The laughter. The touch. The late night stories. To us we weren't siblings.

It was survival... that turned into something sacred.

Now when they ask.

We say nothing.

We just hold hands.

And let them wonder how family is formed.

© amimoh_ombogo

They slowly learn to stop talking.

 

There’s a king in a faraway land who thinks therapy is for the weak.

That depression is cured by prayer, and suicide... suicide is just bad manners.

In his kingdom, men don’t cry, they don't complain, they don't criticize; they just... disappear never to be seen again. 

Women don’t scream while their daughters are raped in their husband's houses while the fathers are out for war, they... they just slowly learn to stop talking.

And funerals… funerals are cheaper than therapy.

But today, in this land, on this stage, in this page.

We speak. We cry. We remember.

We say the names that silence tried to bury.

This is not just a poem.

It’s a heartbeat, for the ones who survived their brutality.

And the ones who didn’t.

© amimoh

Smile Back...

 

They say, 

Death smiles at us all the time, and all we can do is smile back.

But I think mine winks.

Like he knows something I don’t.

Like he's the annoying friend who always wins a game of rock paper scissors because he's changed the rules again and didn't tell you.

I’ve seen Death in many faces.

He once sat in the third row of my cousin’s wedding eating rice like he was just invited.

His seat reserved under the name, 'special guest'. But how special?

He was there when my grandfather coughed for two weeks.

When we asked him, he said he was okay, just old age. But we knew he was lying.

And so we buried him with a golden wristwatch, as if time was something he could still use in the afterlife.

I once saw Death in a hospital hallway, looking confused by vending machines, probably wondering when grief started accepting credit cards.

Death smiles at us all the time,

but not the creepy horror movie smile;

no, it’s more like

the “You gonna finish that sandwich?” smile,

as if he knows you’ll leave the crusts behind eventually.

Sometimes I think I’ve smiled back

without meaning to.

Like when I texted my ex at 2:04 a.m.

Or ate leftover pizza I didn’t trust

because “Eh, I’ve had worse.”

Or when I crossed the road like I was in an action movie

but forgot I’m built more like background cast.

But this is what I’ve learnt:

We don’t outrun Death.

We outlive moments.

We outlaugh silence.

We outcry pain.

We outstubborn the odds.

We show up to the party anyway, with cracked teeth and cheap wine,

saying “I wasn’t invited, but I’m here.”

My uncle used to say,

“If Death wants me, he better book an appointment.”

This man smoked like a chimney, danced like his knees were on fire,

and lived until 92.

His funeral was catered with his favorite food; fried plantains, cold beer, and a picture of him mid-laughter

on a table no one touched.

Maybe that’s the trick.

Maybe smiling back is not about defiance.

It’s about recognition.

Like two tired coworkers at the end of a shift

who nod at each other in the mirror and say,

“You still breathing? Cool. Me too.”

So yes ...

Death smiles at us all the time.

But maybe he’s just shy.

Maybe he’s waiting for us to stop running

and sit with him for a minute,

ask how his day was,

and remind him:

“Not today, buddy. I’ve still got leftovers,

still got love letters I haven’t sent,

still got people who’d miss my stupid laugh.”

So I smile back.

Because it’s all I can do.

Because life is short

and apparently so am I,

according to my driver’s license.

And because if I’m going down,

I’m going down smiling 

with chips in my hand

and joy in my pockets

and Death wondering

why I’m laughing so damn much.

© amimoh

Even in smoke...

 

A coil burns justice into the air; yet still, they breathe.

One wears a mask, immune to grief, immune to death beneath.

What kills the many, spares the sly, the armored few…

Even in smoke, the wicked find a way to make it through.

© amimoh

How's home?

 

And sometimes it forces you into a mould you never imaged being in. However how much you deny it, it comes either way. My grandmother calls it destiny, I call it fate, My dad future, mum responsibility. Responsibility and future in one sentence sounds scary. Real scary.

© amimoh

How perfect is a perfect love life for that dreaming girl?

 

By eighteen, she had folded herself into the shape of someone's 'almost'

Wrote poetry for boys who barely read instructions, let alone her love notes.

She gave second chances like breath. Took red flags as creative impressions.

Because no one tells the dreaming girl that 'perfect' is just an illusion. 

That the Instagram couple with matching captions sometimes sleep back-to-back in real life. 

© amimoh

Nobody comes running to young boys who cry 'rape'

 

Which is to say...

Nobody comes running to young boys who cry 'rape.'

When I told my brother about it, he also asked why I never fought back.

The station officers demanded I give the act a name or it never happened; and so I sang 'rape' that day.

When my sister's seat at dinner table got frequently unoccupied, nobody thought of it. 

When the class diva turned all her teases to constant tears and started missing classes, they never asked why. Instead they invented new ways of making themselves laugh. 

Nobody cares about that eighteen year-old who cries rape. Nobody 😢

© amimoh

For Andrea 🕊️🕊️

 

A psychology manual in a hospital downtown says 'nobody really wants to die'.

They just want relief.

Relief they believe this world can't offer.

And maybe... they're right. Or wrong. 

But if today feels heavy, friend, I have an extra mug.

Come sit at my table; let's talk it out over coffee.

And when he comes, 

what do you say to the god of death...?

'Not today, buddy... not today.'

© amimoh

How free...

 

Chaos...

Uncle Bakari was chaos.

A weather system of regret and laughter.

A storm in slippers.

But if survival was a continent, he'd be its capital. 

And maybe that's why I still remember him; drunk at noon, broke by Sunday.

But more honest than all the sober men I've ever met.

This was my uncle Bakari.

And in some wild, crooked way... he was free, completely free.

© amimoh

The Empty Side of Mum's Bed

 

"The Empty side of my mum's bed raised me better than my dad would have."

My father had a gift.

He could disappear in plain sight. 

Present at every meal, yet never for once asked me how my day was.

And when he finally left, he didn't even slam the door. 

He just...faded; like an echo of a man who had stopped trying not to be heard. 

And from then, I hated the sound of clocks.

Because they tick louder when you're waiting for someone who said they'd come back but never really meant it. 

My dad never left a note, but every empty chair he left behind still screams louder than he ever did. 

© amimoh_ombogo 

What is it to you?

 

Love, for me, comes like dry season rain; loud, unexpected, and gone before you find a bucket.

It grows in odd soil, like that weed in the middle of the tarmac...looking strong but one sweep from a shoe and it’s gone like it never tried.

I’ve watered the wrong gardens, thinking something would bloom, but all I got was mud, and ants with no plans of leaving.

I still write though, because even broken branches try to grow leaves in August.

Even the lazy river keeps flowing, even if it's just in circles.

© amimoh_ombogo

It's Not Like I Can't Write Love Poems

 

It’s not like I can’t write love poems.

I once fell for a lady; 

She said, "Don’t give me flowers, no chocolate bars on periods, no surprise dates; Give me your Spotify password.”

And I swear, that’s when I knew this heartbreak would come with a playlist... not the reggae kind of playlist; it's the Ed Sheeran and Lewis Capaldi kind of playlist with the title, " Late Night Songs To Cry To!"

She moved into my apartment without ever asking.

Started with my toothbrush, then my hoodie, a few of my boxers,  then before I knew it, my entire left side of the bed was hers. 

She called me “poet” like it was both a compliment

and a warning.

She once said, “Don’t write me into your poems unless you’re ready to edit me out later.” I felt that.

That was... scary.

We danced in the kitchen, her in socks, me covered in lust, naked.

She’d burn toast and call it “texture.”

I’d overthink simple hugs and call it “love”

It was perversion.

But love?

Ooh our love was loud.

We argued about movies we hadn’t seen,

she cried over memories we hadn’t made.

Still, she kissed me like punctuation.

Every time I got lost in thought, she found the exact words to bring me back.

And somehow, someway it always ended with us naked on the couch. 

Then one morning, she left (just like that).

Took the hoodie, left the toothbrush.

And the playlist?

Yeah. She changed my Spotify password.

So no, it’s not like I can’t write love poems.

It’s just that...

the last one I wrote logged me out before I could hit play. 

© amimoh_ombogo