By Shem Onderi
The man—
That man—
Born to act, to overact for results.
Expected to love, to rise for family,
Before the rooster crows,
Though he barely slept.
If he lingers,
The night thief may snatch
The little he’s scraped together.
Lucky, sometimes, to eat breakfast at home,
He may spend the day jostling for a bite
So his children might eat something.
He bears the family’s burdens,
Carries the community’s sorrows—
Present at burials,
Holding space at the baraza.
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He is life-hardened, resilient,
Expected to discuss politics,
To serve last at the table,
After the children are full.
A few pairs of shoes—
The cobbler knows them well.
His wardrobe is lean.
Life offers lemons.
He owns little beneath—
A handkerchief to wipe his sweat,
To hide emotional tears when teargassed.
He cries inwardly—
He must not be seen to wail.
Man, brace yourself.
Rise.
The world will treat you harshly.
In his twilight, he walks with a stick,
Eyes dimmed,
Wiser now, quieter—
For who truly needs him anymore?
The man will die.
Eventually.
But he will not be forgotten.
The fruits of his labour endure.
They are not written on sand—
They must be etched in stone.
