Skip to main content

A HOPELESS CRY

A HOPELESS CRY
By L.J

Rays shone upon his window
A new dawn with new beginnings for him
Knapsack on his back, old worn out clothes and shoes
He set out on a journey of the unknown
With no food nor water he set on
Hopeful of what lay ahead.

On his journey did he give away his last coin to a street urchin
‘Hey Mister, You need it more than l do.’
‘Blessed is he who gives than the one who receiveth’
With those words, he walked on
Hopeful of what lay ahead.

Passing a gated community, he stopped and surveyed
‘Someday l will belong there’
‘Woe…you would never belong! This is only for the enlightened’ he was told
Smirking he went on, with each step he was elated
The light on his path shinning brighter and brighter
Just like Jesus in the wilderness he felt
Hopeful of what lay ahead.

As the sky turned to Orange
His journey was directed towards his house
A one squared roomed structure he called a home
Sleeping on a grumbling stomach,
mosquitoes and crickets being his only lullaby
He slept on, hopeful of what lay ahead.

Day in day out, blue sky orange sky
His life was the same
Then one fateful day he slept on never to be woken
A neighbour found him on his death bed peaceful
Hitherto still hopeful of what lay ahead



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Five Scars and a Breath

 Some stories find you and change you. This one did. In today’s post, I’m honoured to share a deeply moving account of pain, survival, and unexpected grace. It's a story of resilience, recovery, and what it means to return from the edge with five scars and a breath. Shared with permission and written in her own words: Five Scars and a Breath " At the beginning of last year, I became fluent in the language of pain. I knew the routine by heart - walk into the hospital, wince through registration, and recite my prescription like a nurse: Start with 40 milligrams of Nexium, top up with another 40 if the pain doesn’t retreat. I wasn’t a doctor, but I played one with practiced confidence. Until one day, the pain didn’t follow the script. They gave me 80 milligrams of Nexium, then paracetamol. The pain remained, stubborn and screaming. Then came the opium. Relief arrived cloaked in a darkness so absolute it stole my sight. The pain retreated but not without a warning. I finally surre...

Seal the Sand on Me, but Don’t Seal Me

 Part 1 "Peter! Peter! Light the bonfire and open the gates. It is time." Mama Lushana called out to the farm boy, her voice carrying the weight of tradition and loss. The title Mama —a sign of respect in her community—had been given to her by the church. It meant "Mother" and was used by everyone to address her, though not all knew the trials that earned her the name. Flashback Lushana was born in the 1940s, one of only two children her mother bore before tragedy struck. Her mother died in childbirth, leaving Lushana and her younger sister to navigate a harsh world under the care of their stepfamily. Determined to provide for her sister, 13-year-old Lushana agreed to marry into a well-off family. Her dowry would allow her younger sister and step-siblings to afford an education. Her husband, Habbu, was an evangelist, often away on preaching missions. While he spread the Gospel, Lushana stayed behind, carrying the weight of countless household and farm ...

Calling on Our Ancestors

When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken. I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m.,...