She Decided When To Make The Call Poem by Job Ombati

She called
and cried long—
into the phone's mouthpiece.

Her heart was heavy.
She cried it out.

"Mama, I have had it all! "
"Hold on, daughter, "
came the response—
calm, collected—
the voice of a goddess of calm.

All sour
and none sweet.
Life had butted her—
hard and harsh.
And firmly,
like some blind and fretting god,
it had taken hold
of the grinding mill.

With a set face,
he ground
slow and fine—
the bitter flour of misery.

"Mama, peace has played
the deceiver's game with me.
There is not enough room
for happiness and sorrow
to sit in my house.
Sorrow has taken it all,
and happiness
waits outside."

"Mama, he walked out—
Sam just walked out on me,
packed his briefcase
and walked out.
Mama, did I make a mistake? "

A pause.

And then came,
"Daughter, you didn't.
The heart is no courtroom—
no verdict is ever passed
for loving.

What tomorrow brings
is already yours."

© Poems for Humanity

[Wednesday,10 December 2025 - 11: 25 p.m., Thika]```