The Man Who Taught The Earth My Name Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

Before I learned the language of the wind,
I knew the dialect of your footsteps—
measured against the ribs of weary roads,
where Jattu whispered to Afowa,
where Audu's fields embraced Weppa,
and dawn fastened its sandals
to the ankles of an unyielding man.

You walked not because the journey was kind,
but because love has never negotiated with distance.
Five miles became a psalm upon your soles,
and every grain of dust rose like incense,
bearing witness to a father
who harvested tomorrow
with the sickle of his own flesh.

Your hands were not merely hands;
they were seasons—
rain when our hopes were thirsty,
soil when our dreams sought roots,
fire when despair gathered at our threshold.
You wore sweat as kings wear velvet,
and pain as prophets wear silence,
never allowing poverty
to pronounce our names.

'Climb, ' you said,
'Climb as high as learning can carry you;
I shall become the ladder.'
And suddenly the impossible
forgot its own name.
School gates opened like obedient rivers,
for your promise was a key
forged in sacrifice,
unbroken by want.

Truth chose your tongue for its dwelling.
Integrity found in your heart
a sanctuary no storm could desecrate.
Discipline stood beside you,
stern as an ancient iroko,
yet beneath your shade
our frightened dreams blossomed
without asking permission from the sun.

You are not merely my father.
You are the quiet constellation
by which my soul still navigates.
You are gold before fire remembered its purpose,
the hidden spring beneath a thirsty nation,
the cedar that refused to bow
before the arrogance of the wind.

How shall I repay the river
for teaching the sea to sing?
How shall the harvest repay the rain
that dissolved itself into grain?
No language owns such abundance.
Gratitude is too small a garment
for the giant you have been.

So I gather my ambitions
like ripe sheaves into my arms,
not as trophies,
but as offerings.
One day, Father,
when my name becomes a house of honour,
the first light upon its doorway
shall belong to you.

For I am only the echo.
You are the mountain.
I am only the fruit.
You are the patient tree.
I am only the song.
You are the breath that taught silence
how to become music.