DREAMS OF MY FATHER AND THE PRAYERS OF MY MOTHER

 The Boy at Their Feet

I was born third in a family of five children, in a house where love was never measured in the number of coins in my father's pocket, but in the warmth of my mother's hands and the dreams my father carried like a sacred burden.

My father, Hassan Abdalla, was a clerk in a government office. He wore neatly pressed shirts, polished shoes, and the same brown belt until its leather began to surrender to age. His salary was enough to keep food on the table, pay school fees, and occasionally bring home a bag of oranges on Fridays. We were neither rich nor poor. We were a mid-income family, the kind that could afford a modest holiday once a year but still counted the remaining days before payday.

My mother, Amina, was a seamstress. She stitched clothes for our neighbours and sometimes sat beneath the yellow bulb in our sitting room, working long after we had gone to sleep. Her sewing machine sang a metallic lullaby that accompanied my childhood.

My elder sister, Fatuma, was the firstborn. She was responsible, serious, and carried the burden of being the family's second mother. My elder brother, Yusuf, came next. He was strong, handsome, and always seemed to know where he was going. Then came me—Hassan, the third born.

After me came my sister Mariam, a quiet girl with bright eyes, and finally little Hamza, the last born, who arrived when the family had already learned the rhythm of five children and one more cry in the night.

Of all us, I was my mother's shadow.

I grew at her feet.

When she cooked, I sat beside the charcoal stove, watching the flames curl beneath the sufuria. When she washed clothes, I followed her to the backyard and held the pegs. When she went to the market, I held her hand so tightly that sometimes she laughed and asked whether I feared she would disappear.

I did not know then that children often love their mothers most when they are afraid of losing the world.

My father loved me differently.

He saw in me something I had not yet discovered. He called me Mwalimu—teacher—whenever I picked up a book. If I read aloud, he listened. If I asked questions, he answered, even when he did not know the answer.

One evening, when I was nine, I asked him why the moon followed our car whenever we drove home from visiting my grandmother.

He looked at me through the rear-view mirror.

“Because it wants to know where you are going,” he said.

“Does the moon know everything?”

“Not everything.”

“What does it not know?”

He smiled.

“It does not know the dreams of a man.”

I thought he was joking. Years later, I would understand that my father had already begun planting dreams in me.

At school, I was the child teachers pointed to when they wanted an example of discipline. I was not the cleverest in every subject, but I was consistent. I read everything I could find—textbooks, old newspapers, storybooks, and the occasional novel my brother brought from the library.

My primary school teachers often said, “Hassan will go far.”

My father kept those words in his heart like a bank account.

At the end of every term, when I brought home my report card, he would place it on the table, smooth the edges, and read every comment.

“Excellent work,” he would say.

My mother would touch my head.

“May Allah open the way for you.”

I believed the world was a straight road. I believed that if I worked hard, passed examinations, entered university, and kept my heart clean, the future would open its doors.

I did not yet know that some roads bend beneath the weight of politics, that some doors close without warning, and that even a good son can become a stranger in his own home.

The Dreams My Father Carried

By the time I entered high school, my father's expectations had become a second uniform.

He wanted me to become a professor, a lawyer, or a senior government official. Anything that would allow him to sit among men who wore expensive watches and speak about his son with pride.

“Education is the only inheritance I can give you,” he told me one morning as I prepared for school.

I was tying my shoes.

“What about the house?”

“The house can burn.”

“The car?”

“A car can be stolen.”

He leaned forward.

“But what you put in your head, nobody can take away.”

I remembered those words whenever I opened my books.

I performed well throughout high school. I was a prefect in my final year, and I represented the school in debates. I discovered that words could do more than answer examination questions. They could persuade, wound, heal, and sometimes make an entire room fall silent.

My English teacher, Mr. Kareem, was the first person to tell me that I possessed a writer's soul.

“You do not merely write sentences, Hassan,” he said after reading an essay I had composed about poverty. “You make people see what they would rather ignore.”

I did not understand the compliment fully, but I carried it home.

My father was proud when I was admitted to university.

I still remember the day I received the admission letter. I ran home from the cybercafé, the paper folded inside my shirt.

“Baba!”

My father was sitting on the veranda, reading a newspaper. My mother was sorting beans in a basin.

“What is it?” he asked.

I handed him the letter.

He read it once, then again.

He stood up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he embraced me.

“My son,” he whispered. “You have opened the first door.”

My mother began to cry.

Not loudly. Just tears rolling down her cheeks as she pressed her palms together.

“Allah has answered our prayers.”

That evening, we ate pilau. My father bought soda for everyone, even though it was not a special occasion for the rest of the world.

My elder brother Yusuf slapped my back.

“University man!”

Fatuma smiled and said, “Now you will forget us.”

“I will never forget home,” I replied.

I meant it.

I entered university carrying two things: my father's dreams and my mother's prayers.

The first year passed like a river in the rainy season. I attended lectures, joined literary discussions, and made friends who believed that the world could be changed by ideas. I studied literature because I wanted to understand people. I wanted to know why some voices were heard and others buried, why some histories were celebrated while others were erased.

My father thought literature was a beautiful road to teaching.

I thought it was a road to truth.

We were both right, though neither of us knew how expensive truth could become.

When the Campus Found Its Voice

The trouble began in my second year.

At first, it was nothing more than arguments in the student cafeteria. Students complained about rising fees, poor accommodation, missing funds, and university administrators who appeared to live in a different country from the people they governed.

I listened.

Then I began to speak.

I joined a student discussion group that met under a jacaranda tree behind the library. We discussed politics, education, inequality, and the responsibility of young people to question authority.

Our group was led by Daniel Mwangi, a final-year student who had the voice of a public speaker and the temper of a matchstick.

“Silence is not neutrality,” he often said. “Silence is permission.”

My friend Leila, a literature student, was more cautious.

“Daniel,” she would tell him, “not every battle must be fought with a microphone.”

He laughed.

“And not every prison has bars.”

I admired Daniel's courage, though I did not always agree with his methods.

I preferred words to crowds. I believed that a poem could say what a speech could not. I began writing about the university, the country, and the young people who carried degrees in their dreams but uncertainty in their pockets.

One of my poems was titled The Country That Ate Its Children.

It was a deeply figurative poem. I wrote about a motherland who invited her children to dinner, served them promises, and swallowed their futures when they asked for bread.

I did not name any politician.

I did not mention any government office.

But everyone understood.

The poem circulated among students. It was read aloud at a literary evening. Someone posted it online. It spread beyond the campus.

A week later, the university administration summoned me.

I entered the disciplinary office with my heart beating like a trapped bird.

The dean sat behind a large desk. Beside him were two lecturers and a security officer.

“Hassan Abdalla?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a student of literature?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have been involved in activities that are considered disruptive.”

“I have attended student discussions.”

“You have also published material that has inflamed political sentiments.”

I swallowed.

“Sir, it is a poem.”

“A poem can be dangerous.”

I wanted to ask whether truth was more dangerous than lies, but I remained silent.

The dean opened a file.

“Your conduct has been reviewed.”

I stared at the papers.

“Am I being expelled?”

“No.”

The word gave me a brief breath of relief.

“You are suspended for the remainder of the academic year, pending further review.”

The room tilted.

I heard the word suspended again in my head, as though someone had struck a bell.

Suspended.

My father's dreams had just fallen from the sky.

My mother's prayers had suddenly become questions.

I signed the papers with a trembling hand.

When I left the office, the sun was bright, but I felt as though I had walked into an eclipse.

The Secret I Carried Home

I did not tell my parents.

That decision began as fear and grew into shame.

For three days, I remained in my rented university room, staring at the suspension letter. I placed it beneath my mattress, then took it out again. I read the words until they lost their meaning.

I imagined my father's face.

I imagined my mother asking whether I had eaten.

I imagined Yusuf telling me to be a man, Fatuma telling me to pray, and my younger siblings asking when I would return to university.

I could not bear the thought of disappointing them.

On the fourth day, I called home.

“Assalamu alaikum, Baba.”

“Wa alaikum salam, my son. How are your studies?”

“Fine.”

“Are you eating well?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother wants to speak to you.”

My mother took the phone.

“Hassan, my child. Are you sleeping?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Do not forget your prayers.”

“I won't.”

“Your father says you must work hard. We are waiting to see your graduation gown.”

My throat tightened.

“Insha'Allah, Mama.”

She laughed softly.

“Why do you sound tired?”

“I have been reading.”

“Then rest. A book will not run away.”

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to say, Mama, the road has closed. I have lost my place. I am afraid.

But I said nothing.

After the call, I packed my clothes.

I had a little money saved from my allowance. I rented a small room in Shauri Moyo, Nairobi, far from the university and far from the eyes of anyone who knew me.

I told myself I would stay for a few weeks.

I would wait for the suspension to end.

I would return to school before my parents discovered anything.

But weeks became months.

And months became an academic year.

Shauri Moyo was a world of its own. Its narrow streets carried the smell of frying onions, charcoal smoke, sewage, and rain-soaked earth. Children played football between houses. Women sold vegetables, second-hand clothes, and tea. Men argued about politics in kiosks and barber shops.

My room was small enough that I could touch both walls with my arms extended. The ceiling leaked during heavy rains. At night, I heard music from a nearby bar and the quarrels of neighbours.

I found work at a cybercafé.

I helped people type letters, print documents, and fill online forms. Sometimes I edited students' assignments for a few coins. Sometimes I wrote poems until dawn.

The first months were unbearable.

I missed lectures. I missed the library. I missed the certainty of having a timetable that told me where I belonged.

I began to understand that exile does not always begin at a border. Sometimes it begins in a room where you are hiding from your own name.

I did not tell anyone that I was suspended.

When people asked what I was doing in Shauri Moyo, I said I was taking a break from university.

It was not entirely a lie.

But it was not the truth either.

 Shauri Moyo

I became a ghost in the city.

In the morning, I opened the cybercafé. At midday, I drank tea and ate chapati from a roadside kiosk. In the afternoon, I helped customers print certificates, job applications, and examination results.

At night, I wrote.

My notebook became the only place where I did not have to pretend.

I wrote about my father.

I wrote about my mother.

I wrote about the suspension letter hidden beneath my mattress.

I wrote about the country that demanded loyalty but feared questions.

A woman named Mama Njeri owned the rooming house where I lived. She was a widow with a sharp tongue and a generous heart. She knew that I was educated, but she never asked too many questions.

One evening, she found me sitting outside, staring at the street.

“Young man,” she said, “you look like someone who has lost a goat.”

“I have lost more than a goat.”

She sat beside me.

“Then you should stop looking at the road and start looking for what can be found.”

I smiled.

“You speak like a philosopher.”

“I speak like a woman who has buried a husband and raised three children. Philosophy is what remains when life has taken your money.”

I laughed for the first time in weeks.

Mama Njeri became my friend.

She sometimes brought me food when she noticed that I had not cooked. She asked about my parents. She warned me not to trust everyone who spoke about politics.

“People disappear in this city,” she told me. “Some disappear because they are guilty. Others because they are innocent.”

I asked her how to tell the difference.

She looked at me.

“You cannot always tell.”

My closest friend in Shauri Moyo was Githu, a young man who worked at a nearby bar. He was loud, funny, and always broke. He called me Professor because of my books.

“Professor,” he would say, “you are wasting your brain in this slum.”

“Where should I take it?”

“To Parliament.”

“I would rather take it to a classroom.”

He shook his head.

“You educated people think too much.”

Githu had never finished high school. He had worked as a mechanic, a loader, and a tout. Yet he possessed a kind of wisdom that could not be found in textbooks.

He knew which streets flooded, which policemen accepted bribes, which landlords cheated tenants, and which politicians visited the poor only when cameras were present.

One night, I read him a poem.

It was about a nation whose citizens were treated like disposable cups.

He listened carefully.

“Professor,” he said when I finished, “you have written our lives.”

I shrugged.

“It's just a poem.”

“No,” he said. “It is a mirror.”

The poem was later published online by a literary magazine.

Its title was The Country That Ate Its Children.

It spread rapidly.

People shared it. Students quoted it. A few journalists mentioned my name.

Then the trouble returned.

The Poem That Became a Crime

I was at the cybercafé when two men came in.

They wore plain clothes. One was tall and thin. The other had a broad face and eyes that seemed to search every corner of the room.

“Are you Hassan Abdalla?” the tall one asked.

My fingers froze above the keyboard.

“Yes.”

“We need to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“Your writing.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

The men showed identification. I read the names but remembered none of them.

“Come with us.”

I looked around the cybercafé.

The customers were silent.

I thought of the poem.

I thought of my parents.

I thought of the suspension letter.

“Am I under arrest?”

The broad-faced man smiled without warmth.

“We are only asking questions.”

I did not move.

The tall man leaned closer.

“You are a clever young man. Do not make things difficult.”

I knew that sentence.

It was the kind of sentence that carried a warning beneath its politeness.

I asked to call my lawyer.

They exchanged a glance.

Then the tall man said, “You will hear from us.”

They left.

I remained seated, unable to type.

That evening, I visited Daniel.

He was staying in a different part of Nairobi. We met in a small café where the music was loud enough to conceal our conversation.

“You need to leave the city,” he said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“I cannot keep running.”

“You have already been running.”

I looked at him.

He lowered his voice.

“They are watching people who write against the government. Your poem is being discussed.”

“Discussed by whom?”

“People who have the power to make your life difficult.”

I felt anger rising.

“I did not commit a crime.”

Daniel shook his head.

“In this country, sometimes the crime is making people remember that they have a voice.”

I thought of my mother.

I thought of my father.

“Do you think I should tell them?”

“Your parents?”

“Yes.”

Daniel was silent for a moment.

“Truth is heavy, Hassan. But secrets are heavier.”

I knew he was right.

I was not ready to accept it.

Running from Two Worlds

I returned to Shauri Moyo and found Mama Njeri waiting outside my room.

“There are men asking about you,” she said.

My heart began to pound.

“Who?”

“I do not know.”

“What did they say?”

“They asked whether a young man named Hassan lived here.”

I said nothing.

She looked at my face.

“What have you done?”

“I wrote a poem.”

Mama Njeri sighed.

“Only a poem?”

I nodded.

She shook her head.

“Sometimes words are sharper than knives.”

That night, I packed a small bag.

Two shirts. One pair of trousers. My notebook. My phone charger. The suspension letter.

I held the letter for a long time.

It was the document that had destroyed my confidence, yet I could not throw it away. It was proof of the life I had abandoned.

I called home.

My father answered.

“Hassan! My son. Where are you?”

“In Nairobi.”

“Why have you not called? Your mother says you sound strange.”

“I am fine.”

“Your semester ends soon, yes?”

I closed my eyes.

“Yes, Baba.”

“Have you started thinking about your research project?”

I could not speak.

“Son?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother and I are proud of you.”

Those words cut deeper than any accusation.

I whispered, “Thank you.”

“Come home when you can. Your little brother asks about you.”

“I will.”

“May Allah protect you.”

“Ameen.”

I ended the call and sat in darkness.

My father believed I was still a university student.

My mother believed her prayers were carrying me toward graduation.

I was running from the state, but I was also running from them.

I had become a fugitive from my own family.

The Last Teardrop

I left Shauri Moyo before dawn.

The streets were quiet. A few women were preparing tea for early customers. A man pushed a cart of vegetables. Somewhere, a baby cried.

I walked toward the main road with my bag on my shoulder.

At the bus stop, I saw Githu.

He was sitting on a bench, smoking.

“You thought you could leave without saying goodbye?”

I stopped.

“How did you know?”

“Professor, even a chicken knows when the owner is carrying a knife.”

I smiled despite myself.

He stood and embraced me.

“Where are you going?”

“I do not know.”

He nodded.

“Sometimes not knowing is better than knowing the wrong place.”

I handed him my notebook.

“Keep this for me.”

He stared at it.

“What is inside?”

“My poems.”

“Why are you giving them to me?”

“Because I may not be able to keep them.”

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he returned the notebook.

“No. You keep them. If you lose your words, you lose the only thing that still belongs to you.”

I took it.

A bus arrived.

I climbed aboard.

As it pulled away, I looked back at Shauri Moyo.

The slum had not been kind to me, but it had given me shelter when I was too ashamed to return home. It had taught me that poverty was not always a lack of money. Sometimes poverty was the absence of someone who could tell you that you were still worth something.

I rested my head against the window.

The city blurred before my eyes.

I thought of my father.

His dreams had been simple: a son in a graduation gown, a framed certificate on the wall, a family photograph in which everyone smiled.

I thought of my mother.

Her prayers had been simple too: that I would be safe, that I would be honest, that I would never forget the road home.

I had failed them both.

Or so I believed.

 The House of Silence

I travelled to a small town outside Nairobi, where I rented a room behind a mechanic's workshop.

I found work repairing computers and writing applications for people who could not navigate online government services.

For the first time in months, I slept without expecting a knock on the door.

But peace did not come.

Every morning, I checked my phone.

Every evening, I wondered whether someone had called my parents.

One afternoon, a message arrived from Fatuma.

Hassan, Mama is worried. Baba says you are hiding something. Please call us.

I stared at the screen.

I wanted to throw the phone away.

Instead, I called her.

“Assalamu alaikum, Dada.”

“Wa alaikum salam. Where are you?”

“I am okay.”

“Stop saying that. We know something is wrong.”

I was silent.

She softened her voice.

“Hassan, you are our brother. Whatever it is, we can face it.”

I looked at the wall.

“Dada, I have been suspended from university.”

There was a long silence.

Then she whispered, “What?”

I repeated it.

She did not speak for several seconds.

“Since when?”

“Almost a year.”

“Hassan!”

Her voice broke.

“Why did you not tell us?”

I closed my eyes.

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of disappointing Baba. Of making Mama cry.”

Fatuma sighed.

“Do you think they would rather hear you are suffering alone?”

I had no answer.

She continued.

“Baba has been asking about your graduation. Mama has been praying for you every night.”

My throat tightened.

“I know.”

“No, you do not know. You have been carrying their dreams as if they were a punishment.”

I wiped my face.

“Are they angry?”

“They will be hurt. But they love you.”

I wanted to believe her.

“Dada, there is something else.”

“What?”

“Some people are looking for me because of my writing.”

She became silent again.

Then she said, “Come home.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

“Then let us help you find out.”

After the call, I sat on the edge of the bed.

For the first time, I considered telling my father everything.

Not through a phone call.

Not through a message.

Face to face.

I was still afraid.

But fear had already taken enough from me.

My Father's Dreams

I returned home on a Sunday evening.

My mother was in the kitchen when I entered.

She looked up.

For a moment, she did not recognize me.

Then she dropped the spoon in her hand.

“Hassan?”

I nodded.

She crossed the room and held me.

I buried my face in her shoulder.

She did not ask questions.

She only held me.

My father was sitting in the sitting room, watching the evening news. When he saw me, he stood up.

“Hassan.”

“Baba.”

He looked at my bag.

Then at my face.

“You have lost weight.”

“I am fine.”

He frowned.

“Do not say that.”

I sat down.

My mother brought tea. Fatuma and Yusuf joined us. Mariam stood by the doorway, and little Hamza came running to hug me.

For a while, nobody spoke.

Then my father asked, “How is university?”

I lowered my head.

“I need to tell you something.”

He waited.

“I was suspended.”

My mother's hand went to her mouth.

My father stared at me.

“For how long?”

“An academic year.”

“Why?”

I explained everything.

The student discussions. The poem. The disciplinary hearing. The suspension. Shauri Moyo. The men who came looking for me.

I told them about the cybercafé.

I told them about the nights I could not sleep.

I told them about the shame.

I told them that I had been afraid of betraying their trust.

My father listened without interruption.

When I finished, he looked down at his hands.

I had expected anger.

I had prepared myself for disappointment.

Instead, he said quietly, “My son, why did you think my dream was more important than your life?”

I looked at him.

He continued.

“I wanted you to become educated. I wanted you to become a man who could stand on his own feet. I never wanted you to become a prisoner of my expectations.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“But I failed you.”

“No,” he said. “You made a mistake.”

He leaned forward.

“A mistake is not the end of a person's life.”

My mother began to cry.

I moved toward her.

“Mama…”

She touched my cheek.

“Did you eat well in Shauri Moyo?”

I nodded.

“Did you sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

She shook her head.

“Allah has brought you home.”

My father looked at me.

“About the university, we will find out what can be done. About the writing, you must learn wisdom. Courage is not the same as recklessness.”

I nodded.

“And about your mother and me,” he added, “never again hide your suffering because you think you are protecting us.”

I bowed my head.

“I am sorry.”

He stood and embraced me.

His arms felt smaller than I remembered.

But they were still strong.

The Prayers of My Mother

That night, my mother came to my room.

She carried a cup of warm milk.

I was sitting on the bed, reading my old notebooks.

She placed the cup beside me.

“Are you writing again?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

I smiled.

“About home.”

She sat beside me.

For a while, we listened to the sounds of the house.

My siblings were laughing in the next room. My father was speaking on the phone. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.

The ordinary sounds of home.

“Mama,” I said, “did you ever stop praying for me?”

She looked at me.

“Why would I?”

“Even when I was away?”

“Especially when you were away.”

I swallowed.

“What did you pray for?”

She touched my head.

“That Allah would protect your heart from bitterness. That He would give you wisdom. That He would guide you back to us.”

I stared at her.

“Did you know I was suffering?”

“A mother does not need a letter to know when her child is carrying a heavy stone.”

I looked down.

She continued.

“Your father dreams of your future. I pray for your soul. Both are important.”

I took her hand.

“I was afraid of disappointing you.”

She smiled sadly.

“You cannot disappoint a mother by telling her the truth.”

I thought of the poem.

The country that ate its children.

Perhaps the country was not only the government.

Perhaps it was also the silence that forced children to hide from their parents.

Perhaps it was the shame that made a young man believe he must carry everything alone.

I opened my notebook.

I began to write.

 A New Beginning

The following weeks were not easy.

My father contacted the university. We learned that my suspension could be reviewed through the proper procedures. I returned to campus to meet the relevant officials. Some were sympathetic. Others were not.

The process was slow.

But I was no longer hiding.

I sought advice from a lecturer who encouraged me to continue my education. I also spoke to a lawyer about my rights and responsibilities.

Daniel called me one evening.

“Professor, are you alive?”

“I am.”

“Good. I heard you went home.”

“I did.”

“Did they kill you?”

I laughed.

“My mother fed me.”

“Then you are safe.”

Leila also called.

“Are you writing?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are still yourself.”

I began writing a new poem.

I titled it The Last Teardrop.

It was about a young man who wandered through the city carrying a secret, only to discover that the road home was not a place but a truth he had been afraid to speak.

I wrote about my father's dreams.

I wrote about my mother's prayers.

I wrote about the children who grow beneath the shadow of expectations and the parents who sometimes forget that children are not vessels for their unfinished lives.

I wrote about politics, but I did not write with hatred.

I wrote with the understanding that words can be weapons, but they can also be bridges.

The poem was published several months later.

This time, I showed it to my father before it appeared online.

He read it slowly.

When he finished, he looked at me.

“Is this our story?”

“It is.”

He smiled.

“Then write it well.”

My mother read it after him.

She wiped her eyes.

“May Allah bless your pen.”

I did not know whether the government would ever forgive my writing.

I did not know whether university would welcome me back without conditions.

I did not know whether my future would resemble the neat picture my father had once imagined.

But I knew something now.

A dream is not a prison.

A prayer is not a chain.

And a son is not a failure because the road he walks is different from the road his parents imagined.

Epilogue: The Road Home

Years later, I would remember the day I returned to my father's house as the day I stopped being a fugitive.

I had spent an academic year in Shauri Moyo, hiding from the university, hiding from the state, and hiding from the people who loved me most.

I had believed that silence was protection.

I had mistaken shame for responsibility.

I had carried my father's dreams like a burden and my mother's prayers like a debt.

But my father taught me that dreams are meant to give a child wings, not chains.

My mother taught me that prayers do not always change the road; sometimes they give a person the strength to walk it.

I eventually returned to university.

The suspension remained part of my record, but it no longer defined my life. I completed my studies, though not on the timetable my father had once imagined.

I continued writing.

Some poems were praised. Others were criticized. A few were ignored.

But I wrote.

Because writing had become the place where I could tell the truth without fear.

Because poetry had taught me that even a wounded voice could still sing.

Because my father's dreams had not died in Shauri Moyo.

Because my mother's prayers had followed me through every dark street.

And because I had finally learned that the greatest courage is not always standing before a crowd.

Sometimes, it is walking through the door of your childhood home and saying:

Baba, I am sorry.

Mama, I was afraid.

I am still your son.

And I am coming home.

© Bunguswa Brian™