A goddamn bee

I lined my balc’ny with flowers,

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

Friends trekked from across the city,

they must have thought

they were for them

I read the paper this morning,

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

The Min’ster of Defense, page one,

a suit and tie:

“a war takes time”

I went off to work regardless

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

I walked through the trees, gazing up

at canopies

in awe

‘Copter crossing,

buzzing over trees

the Min’ster in sight,

but not a bee

My winter coat,

wrapped up in pollen

Spring had sent for me

I brushed it off

but what a fool,

what a fool I can be

Had I kept it there,

I could have seen

a goddamn bee

Perhaps this is the art of hoping:

To understand that I am not the source of hope. To remember that hope is not something I individually cultivate. Hope is some form of energy we inherit, carry, tend to, and pass forward.

I am a vessel for it. We are a vessel for it.

A living thread in a much older structure.

Someone before me had carried something of hope forward without knowing my name.

Someone before me endured.

Someone prayed, someone sang songs, someone danced

Someone planted.

Someone crossed a threshold.

Someone hoped and imagined a life they would never see.

And somehow, their imagining, their hope reached me, reached us.

I began to wonder

What hope did my ancestors carry when they could not yet see me?

What prayers were folded into their choices?

What courage traveled from heart to heart

generation to generation, until it arrived for us.

What will I leave behind for someone whose name I may never know?

Now, hope feels like relationship and collective care.

Relational threads streaming backward and forward.

A living thread within a much older weaving.

I am now one pair of hands holding the threads for a little while. Holding the responsibility for the hope we inherit.…

If not hope, then what?

Hope, where do you live now?

Buried in landslides?

Burned in wildfires?

Drowned in floods?

Trampled on in warzones?

Hope, where do you live now?

In hands rummaging through rubble,

In hands lifting refuse from the river,

In hands planting saplings in charred earth,

In hands linked together in resistance,

In tiny hands that fly a kite,

If not hope, then what?

If not hope, then what?

PRISONERS OF HOPE

Usually, hope would whisper gently in my ears, and I would pretend to be deaf.

She would wave her tiny hands in my face, smiling widely, and I would pretend to be blind.

He would talk about his big dreams, and I would feign indifference.

Perhaps, I have spent too much time looking for the light at the end of the tunnel, and now I have accepted the cold, dark loneliness of the tunnel.

Maybe, where others see a bright future, all I see is a dark present.

What use is hope?

People are dying, the planet is crumbling. What shall I use hope to do?

Does hope only work in an anticipated future?

I sit with a pen in my hand, and a notebook in front of me. Eureka!!!!!

I think I figured it out! I know!!

I know what hope is!! I know who it is!!

Hope is the woman that goes to work everyday, and comes back to her family, tired and exhausted, but ready to pour love into her home.

Hope is the man that strives to cater for his family, amidst the chaos that is life.

Hope is the elderly woman that sets up a stall by the roadside everyday to make ends meet.

Hope is the little girl and boy that hawk their goods in the Lagos traffic, never wavering in a system that is against them.…

So I can reach the other side.

hope, pull me back into reality so I can finish the day.

faith, help me see

and believe in everything beautiful the things I’m slowly shutting down,

and beginning to perceive as unworthy.

my mind is flooded with questions:

why does it never end?

to the wind

please blow a whisper to my soul.

tell me you’ve traveled through worse and still arrived here, beautiful.

tell me you still believe

you will settle in a better place.

my soul is troubled. why does it never end?

to the sun and moon

please assure me there is a season for everything.

the sun dies down

so the moon can gleam

and even in that, it’s beautiful.

in both their moments, they offer light, guiding us through,

giving our eyes somewhere to land.

whisper to me gently

so i can reach the other side because i am slowly drowning

Still Here

Hope is careless.

Why believe in something that survives where it was never meant to?

Hope is reckless.

It grows between the cracks of ruined walls.

It feeds on fear,

It feeds on heartbreak.

It blooms after the fire,

While the ashes are still warm

Hope is audacious.

It refuses to bow when the world demands surrender.

Hope is a quiet strength,

It carries what we cannot,

The cracks embellished in gold,

The broken edges catch the light,

The beauty behind the scars,

Of those who put up a fight.

And perhaps that is hope,

Not the absence of darkness,

But the quiet rebelling of a heart,

That refuses to become it.

The stadium was still. The scoreboard read three-two. Our team was losing, and there were only minutes left to play.

Rain was torrent, soaking our jerseys and filling our shoes with mud. The crowd had gone quiet, and even our loudest supporters had stopped shouting.

Our captain was sidelined, and our best player rotting on the bench. We were tired, frustrated, and starting to believe that the match was already over.

Our coach kept shouting from the side, “Come on! Keep going! Don’t stop!”

I glanced over at my teammates. No one made a sound.

Then I remembered something captain told us before the game:

“Believe in yourself, even when hope seems far away.”

The whistle blew.

We started running again.

My legs felt heavy, but I kept moving. I passed the ball to Arjun. He passed it back to me.

For a moment, everything seemed to slow to perfection.

The goal was right there…

I kicked the ball with everything I had.

It flew through the rain, past the goalkeeper, and into the net.

Three-three.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then the stadium exploded with noise.

My teammates ran towards me, shouting and laughing. We drew the match, but that didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was that we had refused to give up.…

The Sapling

There is a little green plant

growing in the rubble.

I don't know

who planted it.

Perhaps the rain did.

Perhaps the wind.

Perhaps it simply got lost

and came here by mistake.

It has big leaves,

bigger than my hands,

and a very thin stem

that bends when I touch it.

I touch it gently.

I don't want to hurt it.

Perhaps it is rice.

No, rice doesn't look like this.

Perhaps corn.

Or wheat.

I have seen wheat once,

I think,

in a picture.

Perhaps it is an apple tree.

I hope it is.

I have never eaten

an apple by myself.

Perhaps it is a magic plant.

That would explain everything.

Perhaps that is why

it is growing here,

among the stones

and broken windows

and pieces of people's houses.

Perhaps magic plants

like difficult places.

Perhaps when it grows big

it will have rice on one branch,

corn on another,

wheat somewhere higher,

and apples,

lots of apples,

red and round

and shining.

I have been hungry

for so many days

that I think

I could eat all of them.

But Mama used to say

that we must be patient.

She said freedom

was worth waiting for.

I wonder what freedom tastes like.

Perhaps it tastes like bread.

Perhaps it tastes like milk.

Perhaps it is sweet.

The men who came here

said they had come

to give us freedom.

Then other men came…