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Poem

I took my first steps,
barefoot on the cracked earth,
the whispers of ancestors woven
into the fabric of our days.

Under the watchful eyes of Mma Ishmael,
her hands, calloused yet tender,
shaping our dreams like clay,
teaching us the rhythm of resilience,
how to dance in the rain,
how to find joy in the simplest of things.

Dikaelo, with laughter like a river,
flowing through our hearts,
her stories painted with the colors of our land,
carving paths through the thickets of youth,
guiding us with a compass of love,
reminding us that even in rust,
there lies beauty,
a testament to endurance.

Kachikau, a patchwork quilt of memories,
where the laughter of children echoes
against the backdrop of dusty roads,
where every corner tells a tale,
each grain of sand a witness
to the lives that have danced
under her vast, open sky.

Though the village wears its age
like a badge of honor,
we see beyond the rust,
beyond the faded paint and weary walls,
to the heart that beats in every home,
to the spirit that rises with the sun,
filling our lungs with the scent of earth,
with the promise of tomorrow.

Here, we learned the language of the land,
the secrets of the baobab trees,
the song of the wind that carries
the laughter of our forebears,
reminding us that we belong,
that this is our sanctuary,
our haven,
our peace

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