Tag Archives: Freedom

“Redemption Song”

That I didn’t break,

That I didn’t fall,

That You held me high,

Right through it all.


That I learned the truth,

of Life’s cold ways,

And You stopped the fear,

That darkened my days.


That You lifted me,

On wings of Gold,

And let me soar,

and kept Your hold.


That I became again,

Who I was before,

And learned to retain,

The “me” at my core.


That I fell in love,

With each new place,

And experienced things,

That I can never replace.


That You delivered me,

From walls too near,

And helped me to breathe,

Every breath so dear.


For redemption,


Freedom from strain,

How can I better

Say thank You again?


More times await,

They’re looking to me…

Here’s to fate,

And to destiny.





“The waters called out to her, and all she could do was answer.”



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To be free.

She named him Mobo. The moment she had seen him, through the haze of sweat-filled dizziness and delirious pain, she knew it was only right. It was the way the brightness didn’t bother him, and the way he screamed so convincingly as though he’d had a chance to practice. As she peeked at him through the whiteness of the coats that separated them, his defiance, pushing through his arms and out to his legs, frightening the doctor who was trying to hold the scissors steady, made her sure that he meant freedom. In front of the bodies who’d pushed her door left and right bringing their offerings of smiles and prayers, she called him “baby” like she was meant to.  But when she asked them to leave, too embarrassed to display her nakedness, she’d whisper “freedom” into his ear as he latched on trustingly.

He grew like she’d expected from freedom, with legs like tree stumps, and an appetite that justified it. Whenever they went to the clinic, he would be given a sweet just for being his mother’s strong boy. He would run through the adjoining compounds of his mother’s house, jumping over the neighbours’ pots and crashing through interlocked hands, just so that he could feel the harmattan breeze tickle his belly button. He loved to run. He would sneak away to join the boys that played football under the bridge. He would run so fast, that he would only be able to hear the roars of approval from the boys on the sideline, which would change to boos because he’d eventually forget the ball. People would smile at him and rub his head with the promise of greatness. But he was too young to know promises.

His mother found it hard to look at him, when the visit to the doctor produced more than sweets. He’d overworked his young limbs. His mother would pound her fists between sifts of flour as she mourned the hopes that his speed had lost them. His freedom had trapped him, and made him a prisoner. As a man, he was made to understand what his mother had seen the day she met him, feeling his tired legs that were built for the breeze. He resented the hunger that had now left him empty. Mobo would sit in the grey couch, and watch the vitality of the neighbours through the kitchen window, only to be jolted to thought by friendly calls of his name. That word with its killing sounds harassed him. Mobo. Mobo. Mobo? Freedom was a wicked friend that had promised to visit, but danced seductively past his gates. He was wicked because he ever was freedom. And it was only fair that he never was free.