The market roared, a sea of voices,
dust clinging to her weary face—
a lone star against an unyielding sky.
No father’s hand to steady her steps,
only the fire within, the will to carve a future,
to mend the fractures of fate,
to gather her children whole.
She called out,
soft whispers woven with quiet pleas,
her hands, though illiterate,
grasping the key to a world she longed to know.
She dreamed in pages,
in letters she could not trace,
in knowledge untamed, boundless as the wind.
Each book a burden, each book a grace,
bought with coins stained in toil,
held with reverence, a relic of sacrifice.
A blue-bound dictionary—treasure wrenched from hardship,
an offering for her child,
she who first taught me the rhythm of life
in the warm, sanguine recess of her womb.
Through years of struggle, through halls of learning,
her faith stood, unshaken, unwavering.
She listened, she bore my fears,
her love, a quiet, steady tide.
No comfort claimed, no rest embraced—
only the weight of dreams not hers,
but mine to carry.
And when the title came,
etched in scholarly ink,
it was hers as much as mine,
a monument to all she had given.
Tawakalitu Amope—
my first haven, my guiding light,
the pillar upon which my dreams stood tall.
Now silence lingers where her laughter once bloomed,
an absence that fills the room with longing.
No earthly hunger shall touch you now,
no sorrow, no creeping shadow of pain.
Only the feast of angels,
only the glow of paradise,
only rest—finally, softly, completely.
Sleep well, Mother.
Your love remains,
woven into the rhythm of my days,
the pulse of my being,
the song you first sang to me
in the crimson warmth of your womb.
© Lanre Adebayo