It's June the 9th—
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.
I've watched my dad pull an engine
from a Nissan Sunny, alone—
fix it, reinstall it, alone.
I've watched my dad shirtless every morning,
praying in tongues.
We never owned a rooster,
never needed an alarm—
only my dad's voice, praying in tongues.
When my dad speaks, I fall silent.
I become a fool—
a listening fool.
I've watched my dad move shrewdly:
once, when school opened
but money wouldn't stretch,
he bought old batteries,
sold them as scrap
the same day—
so I could pay my fees.
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.
I'm baffled
by his patience.
He sits in rooms thick with noise,
conversations crashing over each other,
but barely speaks—
still, patient.
I praise my dad.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 1:26 AM UTC
It's June the 9th—
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.
I've watched my dad pull an engine
from a Nissan Sunny, alone—
fix it, reinstall it, alone.
I've watched my dad shirtless every morning,
praying in tongues.
We never owned a rooster,
never needed an alarm—
only my dad's voice, praying in tongues.
When my dad speaks, I fall silent.
I become a fool—
a listening fool.
I've watched my dad move shrewdly:
once, when school opened
but money wouldn't stretch,
he bought old batteries,
sold them as scrap
the same day—
so I could pay my fees.
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.
I'm baffled
by his patience.
He sits in rooms thick with noise,
conversations crashing over each other,
but barely speaks—
still, patient.
I praise my dad.
This a poem to my dad, Makau Mwanzia
