(for Zakari Yusuf)

 

Since they took you,
the night no longer walks like it used to—
it stumbles.
Wind whistles through my bones,
not from cold, but from knowing
your voice won’t echo down the corridor again.

It was 6:30 pm, before magrieb prayer,
I sat waiting for silence
to do something different.
But it didn’t.

The bullet did not just enter you, Yusuf.
It tore through every memory—
your laughter while sharpening a blade,
your slow footsteps in the yard,
the way you’d sip water like it might vanish.

Now the house forgets how to be home.

A lecturer once asked a question
that still lingers above the doorway:
“What protects the protector?”
I have no answer.
Only your blood
stained across this month.

Sleep no longer visits kindly.
I stay awake,
pretending I’m on patrol with you,
pretending I can stop time
before it reaches the trigger.

Yusuf—
I still see your silhouette
whenever dawn touches the earth
with that soft, golden ache.

They said you died a hero.
But I still call your name
like a brother
just trying to bring you home

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Tyrell James on Unsplash