The first man I ever buried…

never died.

In primary school,

the teacher asked us to draw

our heroes.

The child beside me

drew his father.

I drew a face with a question mark.

The teacher said,

“You forgot the face?.”

No, ma’am.

The face

forgot me

Again,

In secondary school,

they said,

“Draw your family.”

I drew my mother twice.

One to be my mother.

The other?…

to pretend to be my father.

Imagine losing

to someone who never showed up.

My father was never there.

Not when I took my first step

so the floor became the first man

to catch me when I fell.

My father was never there.

So I learned to pronounce

the word “Dad”

the way orphans pronounce

“tomorrow”

with so much hope,

but never certainty.

On Father’s Day,

every child had a card to give.

I had so many questions. My cheat became a battlefield where imagination would have to wrestle reality. My little shoulders burdened with the weight of crosses i never bargained.

So tell me… was i too difficult to love? Or

On the other hand.. How do you miss someone

whose voice has never lived inside your memories?

How do you forgive a man who abandoned you

before you ever learned how to blame him? Who do you call a role model when life has modelled you to play the role yourself?

See you dont’t get it… i mean Every victory

felt incomplete. Because no matter how loud

the applause became, there was always one pair of hands I was still waiting to hear.

My father was never there.

So my mother

became daylight

and moonlight.

She worked until her hands

looked older than time.

She laughed with cracked lips

so I would never hear

how exhausted hope can sound.

She buried her own dreams

Just to water mine.

If I have ever called anyone

a superhero,

it was the woman

who became two people

because one person

walked away.

“What exactly did I do wrong?”

Again, Was I too difficult to love?

Or did you leave

before I ever had

the chance

to become worth staying for?

My father was never there.

Not when fear

introduced itself.

Not when manhood

came asking questions.

Not when I needed someone

to tell me that tears

do not make a boy

less of a man.

that the boy child

Was not made from stones

His emotions are valid

So I learned masculinity

from movies.

Healing

from strangers.

And manhood

from men

who owed me nothing.

I have spent my entire life

trying to remember

a man

I was never allowed

to know.

I became addicted

to proving myself.

Not because I wanted success.

Because I thought

if I climbed high enough,

he might finally

look up.

But today…

I refuse

to become

the echo

of the silence

that raised me.

I refuse

to pass down

abandonment

Like a family inheritance

So today i swear…

That if one day

my child writes a poem

about me…

May the hardest line

they ever have to write

be,

“My father…

never missed

a single day.”