Simiyu S. Stanford
As the sixth child of Mama,
With three more trailing after me,
We were born into the rough hands of poverty—
A house that groaned under heavy rains,
The roof leaking, each drop a reminder of our grief.
We crammed into that narrow space,
Huddled together,
Shivering on a hard floor, tattered sacks our only shelter.
The cold gnawed at our bones,
And hunger hollowed out our spirits.
When Papa married again,
A second wife with her three hungry mouths,
Our house became smaller,
The roof sagged under the weight of new burdens.
He left us behind,
As if we were the remnants of a life he no longer wanted.
Her children arrived like a storm—
More hunger, more noise,
More empty plates at the table.
Our mother’s heart cracked a little more,
Her hands grew tired of holding on,
Her tears fell silently in the night,
And our cries echoed in the corners of a home
That had once been filled with hope,
But now was drowned in sorrow and neglect.
Schooling, they said, was our only hope—
A dream sold in whispers,
A hope passed from hand to hand like a worn coin,
Yet daily, I trudged home,
Feet sore from the long road,
Aching under the weight of unpaid fees.
I carried that burden alone,
Walking past empty shops,
Empty bellies,
And empty promises of a better tomorrow.
There were days without meals,
Without new clothes,
Just the same tattered uniform,
A reminder of what we couldn’t have.
Yet through it all, I rose—
In primary, I climbed to the top,
A flickering light in a world of shadows,
Despite the doubt that clung to my every step.
“Who will pay for high school?” they asked,
Their words sharp, cutting deeper than hunger itself.
Among the country’s best,
Yet I went to a local school,
A testament to my spirit—
Unbroken, despite the weight of circumstance.
Still, I stumbled through my studies,
The way Adam reached for the apple—
A dream caught in a snare,
A vision just out of reach.
Four years of waiting,
Until I dragged myself to university,
Through sweat and toil,
A revived hope beating in my chest.
I’d vowed to graduate, to free my family,
Yet years later, I stand here—
A degree in hand, a prayer on my lips,
No job, no employment.
But still, I hold on,
Through the empty days and the barren nights,
I hold on,
Not just to survive,
But to see what the dawn might bring.
About the Poet: Simiyu S. Stanford, author of The Ring of the Moon, is a writer and educator with a Master of Arts in English Literature. His work delves into themes of identity, resilience, and self-worth, enriched with vivid imagery and symbolism. Simiyu is a regular contributor to the Mount Kenya Times, where he writes for the poetry column. For inquiries, contact him at +254726651428 or via email at stanfordsiboe@gmail.com.
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