HE CARRIES FIRE (DARK CUT )
He learned silence in the darkness, before light ever reached his mouth.
Two homes crushed one backbone, two fires fought inside one chest.
He watched “he” disappear like a spirit at dawn—no warning, no turning back. Hunger entered the house like a curse.
Ndzii was still a child, her body not ready. Life broke the door and came in—heavy hands, loud voices, sleepless nights. Pain marked her skin.
Six children lay on the same mat—different bloods, the same crying, the same cold, the same fear breathing.
He learned hunger isn’t only about food; it’s a shadow, a ghost that follows you into sleep.
He carried a weight that could break a grown man, swallowed anger until his throat burned, dried his tears inside, and still stood.
He learned to count exits before smiling, to measure distance before trust. The ground beat him and taught him—without mercy, but with truth.
He didn’t pray softly. He loaded his prayers like bullets and fired them straight, swearing the past would never cross his gate again.
Ndzii sang on an empty stomach. Her voice shook, but she stood. She laughed so the children wouldn’t fear and cried only when night hid her face.
The ancestors were watching. The dust listened. The walls heard everything.
Every scar became a warning. Every tear became an oath: never again.
He learned endurance from her spine—a love that bleeds but does not die, a love that needs no witnesses.
Then “she” came—clean floors, quiet rules—but the noise still lived in his blood.
Between “he” who vanished like a thief and “she” who stayed like a guard, he carved himself—hard, cold, precise.
He didn’t run. He didn’t beg. He bent pain until it spoke and renegotiated destiny.
Joy hid in corners. Smiles were rare like mercy. Discipline became food for tomorrow.
He didn’t chase crowns—they carry blood. He didn’t chase noise—it kills.
He guards peace for his children with fire.
He carries two fires and does not burn.
He remembers. He forgives. But he does not forget.
