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