Dear Mom,

I saw your picture today,

the one where your eyes held the sun—

before it set behind my shadow.

You stood at the gate,

hope wrapped around my name,

sending me off with prayers sown

into the seams of my tattered suitcase.

You said, Go, my son, find the world,

bring home its laughter.

But mother, the city is a wound

that never stops bleeding.

I walk streets paved with promises

that never ripen,

press my ear against doors

that only whisper rejection.

Night after night,

I fold my dreams into paper boats,

watch them drown in gutters

where forgotten souls drift.

Four years, Ma.

Four years of learning that hunger

isn’t just the emptiness in my stomach,

but the silence where joy used to live.

I tried to turn sad songs into hymns,

but even echoes refuse to dance

when sorrow sings lead.

Yet, every call I make,

your voice remains unshaken.

Ndikudikira mwana wanga, you say,

as if faith is enough to stitch

the holes in my pocket.

As if my return will taste like victory,

not the salt of broken dreams.

But Ma, keep hoping.

If hope is all we have, let it be stubborn.

Let it rise like the smoke

of your evening fire,

let it linger in your prayers

until the wind carries it to me.

For I am still walking,

even with stones in my shoes.

I am still fighting,

even with storms in my chest.

And one day, Ma,

the rain will end.

One day, I

will bring home the sun.

Your son, still searching.