FROM THE HANDS THAT TRIED TO STEAL IT...

 One silent night, when the traffic stood still,

my father answered a question time could never kill.

“The happiest day of my life,” he said, soft and clear,

“was the day my first child was born.”

 

I was meant to be asleep in the back seat, small and unaware,

too young to know those words would follow me everywhere.

Years later I learned — it wasn’t just love in his tone,

it was ink on a page I didn’t know I’d own.

The first chapter of an assignment written over my name:

 

Then came an afternoon, my brother home bleeding,

and I ran to my father expecting a hero to come leading.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t shout.

He just looked in my eyes and asked,

“What are you going to do about it?”

 

I wanted rescue.

He wanted to raise one.

That question broke me out of fear,

out of excuses, out of childhood.

 

So I stood.

For my brother.

I found my voice.

I took back his power from the hands that tried to steal it.

And that day, I stopped being just a brother.

I became a protector.

 

When I came back, my father didn’t clap.

He didn’t make a speech.

He just smiled and said,

“You’ve done a good job.”

 

And those five words became my inheritance.

Heavier than gold.

Louder than any crowd.

 

Because being firstborn isn’t a privilege.

It’s a calling.

To carry the weight before anyone feels it.

To walk first so others learn the path.

To be strong until they are strong enough to stand alone.

 

 

That is the legacy my father never just told me

He lived it.

And taught me to live it too.

About the poet:

Gideon Adeyeye is a performing poet and spoken word artist with nearly a decade of experience exploring the depths of human vulnerability, mental resilience, and emotional healing.

LOVE CAN BE EXPENSIVE

 I watched my mother count money

as though every note had a heartbeat.

Bills gathered around her like hungry birds,

and she kept dividing what little she had

into pieces large enough for all of us.

 

She worked while the world slept,

carried burdens she never placed on our shoulders,

and smiled with a tiredness

I was too young to understand

but old enough to remember.

 

There was a particular pain in watching her struggle,

loving someone whose hands were always busy

building a life that kept collapsing beneath its cost.

I wanted to help,

but childhood had empty pockets.

 

Sometimes I watched her come home

and wondered how much exhaustion

a person's body could hide behind a smile.

She rarely called her sacrifices sacrifices.

She simply called them life.

 

I learned early that love can be expensive,

not because it asks for money,

but because it asks people to give pieces of themselves

they may never get back.

My mother gave many of hers.

 

So her sacrifices became seeds beneath my skin.

Every dream I carry remembers her name.

I want to build a life where the people I love

do not have to choose between survival and peace,

where her labour finally has somewhere to rest.

 

About the poet:

Olatinwo Yushau is a compassionate, deeply intuitive poet, performer, and author whose creative practice centers on survival, resilience, and the human evolution through adversity