We Native Sang
Soft
like a voice calling me home.
Ori mi,
grant me the wealth to see good things,
Ori mi, gi mi ni owo lati ri ohun rere.
I sing with the natives,
songs carried for years
from ancestors to ancestors,
mouth to mouth,
drum to drum.
Ori gbe mi de ibi ire,
may my destiny carry me
to the place of goodness.
Mine may not be reggae,
nor the slow cry of blues.
Mine is the ancient rhythm
traditional, breathing,
redeeming my path.
We native sang.
A pulse beneath the ground,
older than memory,
older than the dust of our fathers’ roads.
The Aki people,
bright as fireflies in the night air,
dancing between shadows and light.
Children of the broken sun,
scattered yet glowing.
Yet still
we point the right fingers
toward the right direction
of our homes.
Away… away… away…
Carry my voice like smoke
to the beyond.
Let it rise past the hills of spirits,
past the listening sky.
Abo, hear us.
Bless us with a new song.
Bless us with a new song
we natives have never sung before.
A song for healing.
A song for return.
A song for tomorrow.
And when the drums awaken,
and the earth remembers our feet
We will sing again.
We native sang.
And we will sing.
©️ Dibang Mary
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 10:54 PM UTC
Children are not soft things
meant to be broken by history.
They are not collateral,
not footnotes in war reports,
not the silence after gunfire
when adults argue about borders.
A child is a country still learning its name.
They arrive holding light in their palms,
asking only for room to grow
but we hand them hunger,
teach them the grammar of fear,
enroll them early in survival.
Some learn the alphabet from bullets.
Others spell home with ash.
Look closely
the child carrying water is carrying a future.
The child hawking oranges
is negotiating with destiny.
The child sleeping under bridges
is dreaming in a language the world refuses to translate.
We say they are resilient
as if resilience were a gift,
not a wound stitched daily with courage.
A child should know lullabies,
not sirens.
Should inherit toys,
not trauma.
Should grow into questions,
not graves.
Yet still
they laugh.
Still
they imagine tomorrow with stubborn hope.
Still
they believe the world can be kinder
than the hands that raised it.
This is their quiet rebellion.
Do not tell me children are weak.
Tell me why the world is afraid
of what they might become
if allowed to live whole.
©️ Dibang Mary
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 10:58 PM UTC
They walk past burnt tyres and posters
peeling like old promises.
Uniforms faded, shoes talking before them
on roads that listen too closely.
They know which streets to avoid,
which eyes not to meet.
They learn early
that innocence is not armour.
Their hands hold notebooks,
phone screens with cracked dreams,
a mother’s warning still warm
in their ears.
Boys without guns grow up fast.
Not brave
just careful.
Careful is not the same as safe.
Sirens do not call their names,
but bullets do not ask.
Nightfall is a test
they never applied for.
When one of them does not return,
the questions arrive armed:
Where was he going?
Who was he with?
As if survival were evidence.
They had no guns.
Only plans.
Only tomorrows rehearsed quietly
under their breath.
If you want peace,
protect the boys who carry nothing
but their lives.
Because every nation
that loses its unarmed boys
is already at war with itself.
©️ Dibang Mary
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 4:58 PM UTC
They ripped dawn from our wrists,
branded us cargo before language could save us.
Our mother’s scream was the final currency
before iron erased our names.
We were priced in silence,
auctioned for no kobo
as if a human life were zero,
as if breath were surplus.
The sea choked our prayers,
ships groaned on stacked bones.
Darkness taught us arithmetic:
how flesh becomes figures
when greed writes history.
Sold for no kobo,
yet paid for in blood.
Empires stand on our unpaid dead,
their riches swollen with stolen futures.
The ocean keeps record.
The soil keeps record.
Sugarcane, cotton, tobacco
each field speaks the names
they tried to bury.
I speak for the stolen mouths.
We were never nothing.
What they sold for no kobo
was invaluable
and it is still rising.
©️ Dibang Mary
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
I saw my name written in the clouds,
White as snow.
Butterflies in my belly,
I leap for joy,
’Cause heaven that I acknowledge
Did same too
He smiled back at me.
The wind clapped softly for my faith,
The sun leaned closer to my skin,
As if to whisper, Yes, my child, I see you too.
My doubt fell quiet in the light of His grin,
Every fear unlearned its language.
Even my past bowed its head in reverence
To the present moment of grace.
I stood there, small and infinite at once,
Held between breath and miracle,
Knowing , without proof,
Yet certain beyond sense.
The clouds slowly folded my name away,
But the smile remained inside my chest.
For once heaven calls you by your name,
You carry eternity in your steps.
And even when the sky returns to blue,
And the birds pretend nothing happened,
Something eternal rearranges your walk
You no longer move like someone unseen.
©️ Dibang Mary
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 6:55 AM UTC
Mother, twitch your rosary upon me,
let the beads fall like soft rain
on a thirsty soul.
Continuously..
like a blessing handed down,
like a pulse, a quiet thrum of lineage
waging off my adversaries,
thrums of heaven’s blessing
waking in my skin.
I pray, but I want the prayers
from the cocoon I came out from
to shiver against the walls of becoming
on me, in me, around me.
Your “this be the place”
and that place is "me"
your butterfly of many colours,
still learning how to stretch and trust her wings
Still learning not to bow to the wind
You whispered faith into my fragile seasons,
held the trembling of my becoming
as though it were sacred silk.
And even now, when the world grows heavy,
I feel your hands in the quiet
steadying my flight,
mending the thin places,
reminding me that wings remember
even when the heart forgets.
So let the rosary twitch,
let the prayers burn their way to heaven, and let me taste the sweet nectar meant for this new version of me
I am still unfolding,
still blooming into the colours you always believed were hidden beneath my skin
...I your multicolored butterfly
©️ Dibang Mary
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 12:37 AM UTC
Heart nowadays, oh me days,
it’s no longer asking how you are,
it’s stitching bandages over silence,
guarding its own pulse,
wrapping itself in quiet armor.
It’s platonic, filled with tonics of
it’s just me and my household,
a small circle, a soft shelter,
the only place that still feels like truth.
Closing the door gently,
pretending the world outside can’t bruise anymore.
Love has become a quiet visitor,
knocking only when the lights are off,
whispering, “are you still holding on?”
And I answer with tired laughter,
the kind that tastes like rain on old wounds.
We’ve learned to heal in corners,
to breathe in small rooms,
to stretch our softness without breaking.
The world has grown loud and loveless,
so the heart learns to whisper,
to rest in its own calm corner,
to choose peace over proving,
presence over performance.
Because nowadays hearts don’t ask for permission
they just learn to survive,
to beat in their own lonely rhythm,
to gather strength from the simple fact
that we are still here,
still rising,
still choosing to feel
even when the world says,
“feel less.”
©️ Dibang Mary
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 11:28 PM UTC
In November, I ask Halloween to allow me win
to make my life sweet, because I have sweat through the streets. The ember months are here, and I do not want to be embarrassed by lack or sorrow. I have worked, prayed, and waited; now, I only wish for a season that rewards the heart that has endured.
Christmas, come with your flare ... the light, the laughter, the warmth that reminds us of Christ’s love for all. Let homes glow again with peace, not just decoration. Let the songs of joy drown out the noise of struggle. Let families find unity where distance has lived too long.
My wish is simple, yet deep
That this Christmas, blessings will not skip any roof. That joy will visit even the weary hearts. That those who have lost hope will taste it again in a smile, in a meal, in a miracle.
For myself, I wish for calm , the kind that comes after a long storm. For my family, I wish for good health and laughter without end. For my country, I wish for truth, fairness, and leaders who remember the people they serve. For the world, I wish that love will once again be louder than war.
Christmas, come softly but shine boldly ... let the world remember what grace feels like.
©️ Dibang Mary
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 9:48 PM UTC
If I could turn back the clock,
I'd take back the words, the hurt, the shock.
The tooth I lost, the sting I felt,
The silent wars in hearts that knelt.
I wanted vengeance, an eye for an eye,
To watch them suffer, to see them cry.
But now I know, with deeper cost,
That in the end, I was the one who lost.
The pain I sought, the rage I held,
Burned my soul, and truth dispelled.
What’s justice when it leaves you cold,
A heart of stone, a mind grown old?
If I could turn back the clock,
I’d step away from the endless block.
The gloves I wore, the fists I threw,
Were just the wounds I never knew.
The boxer I never became….
Was not the one who lived for fame,
But the one who learned to let it go,
To heal the heart, to slow the blow.
If I could turn back the clock,
I’d find the strength to break the lock.
For in forgiveness lies the key,
And peace is found when you let it be.
I’d walk away from all the fights,
And find my peace in softer nights.
The boxer I never became,
Is the one who learned to drop the shame.
For what’s a win if you lose your soul?
What’s a title when you’re never whole?
So if I could turn back the clock,
I’d let the past slip from my walk.
And in its place, I’d find the grace,
To leave the ring, and find my place.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
I waited for the drummers and singers,
then I decided to dance without them.
The heavenly beats poured down
rhythmic, spiritual, singing holy, holy.
A reminder that He will continue
to make my river flow
with the promises written over my life.
So I lifted my hands,
even though my knees shook.
I spun in the wind of His presence,
my heart spilling like water
from a cup long held back.
I felt the pulse in my chest,
the fire in my spirit,
the whispers of angels
trailing behind my every step.
The music of heaven did not need drums
it needed my surrender.
The melody was in my breath,
my heartbeat,
my trembling joy.
And I danced
not for the crowd,
not for the praise,
not for the eyes of men.
I danced because He is faithful.
I danced because His love cannot wait.
I danced because even in my waiting,
even in my longing,
His river flows,
carrying every dream, every tear, every vow
straight to my heart.
I am dancing still,
and the song continues,
a river without end,
a grace without measure,
a life being written
by the hand that made me.
©️ Dibang Mary
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:21 PM UTC