Listen… to the wind that hums across our city,
to the whispers of walls that have seen both war and worship.
This is Yarwa, not just a name, but a heartbeat carved in dust and dawn.

They said we were broken, that even the sun would never rise again in our sky.
But they forgot, we are children of the desert.
Even when buried in silence, we still bloom.

They called us ruins and silence.
But they forgot, silence is where prayers begin.
They saw dust, and we saw foundation.
They saw fire, and we saw the spark that shapes our tomorrow.

Yarwa, where faith wears the color of sunrise,
every scar is a story, and every tear, a seed of tomorrow.

I’ve walked through your streets, where laughter once hid behind ruins,
where mothers turned pain into prayer, and fathers built hope with trembling hands.
But from the rubble, I saw something –
a small child holding a book,
a soldier of knowledge and a fighter with no guns, only dreams.

That’s when I knew, the war was never won.
Because hope is undefeated here.
Our hope doesn’t wear perfume,
but it smells of sweat, it tastes of dust, and sounds like Insha’Allah.

Yarwa, city of the faithful,
you taught us that peace is not just the absence of war,
but the presence of wisdom, the courage to rebuild,
and the will to forgive.

I’ve seen her nights, black as burnt paper,
her streets haunted by echoes,
and people walking with memory in their eyes.
But I’ve also seen her golden mornings, soft and gentle,
a place where hope falls like rain, and dreams wear uniforms to school again.

Listen… do you hear it?
The hum of women pounding resilience into the air,
the laughter of children chasing light through alleyways,
where the mu’azzin’s call folds over the city like mercy.

This is not the end.
This is resurrection.
This is the sound of a people who still believe.
Because we are the verse after violence,
the breath after brokenness,
and the chapter they thought would never be written.

Yarwa shall rise again and again,
not by miracles, but by men and women who wake before dawn to rebuild what they love.
By teachers who teach without chalk.
By girls who write dreams on torn paper.
And by youths who paint peace on cracked walls.

Look around, schools rising again,
markets breathing again,
mosques calling again,
and hearts are mending.

This is our home,
our pride,
also our promise.

Let the world know,
Borno is not just a chapter of pain,
it is a poem of perseverance,
a song still being sung in the key of courage.

For every child who dares to learn,
for every woman who dares to dream,
for every man who dares to heal,
Yarwa shall rise again.

We will plant peace in the soil of scars,
and harvest joy from the fields of struggle.
We will write new stories on old ruins,
and call them victory.

And when they ask, Who are you?
we will answer with pride that we are the voice that refused silence,
the city that refused death,
the people who prayed… and rose.

Because the Almighty has written it,
after hardship, comes ease.
After ashes, comes bloom.
After darkness, comes dawn.

So rise, Yarwa!
Rise, city of grace and grit!
Rise with your children, with your faith,
and with your flame!

And when the wind carries our name again,
let it say, Maiduguri, land of peace, land of pride,
still standing, still shining, still rising.

YARWA SHALL RISE AGAIN.

 

 

 

 

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