The Road After Work Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

"If I knew, I would not have gone."

Those were the words
that came bleeding from his mouth—
not blood alone, but regret,
as they wheeled him through
the narrow doors of the emergency room.

Wednesday had folded into a cold evening.
At Sameco, where I once served
eight years before,
I stood again beneath the white light,
and watched my hands tremble
like leaves refusing the wind.

He was young—
young enough for tomorrow
to still have plans for him.

But the road had other plans.

His lower limb lay broken
beneath the violence of metal and asphalt;
tibia and fibula—
two pillars of a house
the accident had nearly brought down.
A punctured wound opened its mouth,
while we fought to keep
the little blood he had left.

He cried.

"Will my leg be fine? "
"Will I walk again? "

What could I give him
but the fragile currency of hope?

So I spoke reassurance
while my nurses and I
held back the red tide,
sutured torn flesh,
and tried to rearrange
what the road had scattered.

He prayed.
He wept.
He asked why God
had permitted such a night.

And somewhere beneath my gloves,
my own hands trembled.

For I knew then
that medicine sometimes stands
at the narrow bridge
between what we can save
and what we must surrender.

He had closed for the day.
His work was done.
But one more job called—
and he answered.

Just one more journey.
Just one more road.
Just one more evening
between a man and his dreams.

Now the road had collected its price.

That night, after the lights grew quiet,
I whispered a prayer
not only for him,
but for all of us
who carry our livelihoods
on the backs of highways—

those who leave home
with two sound feet
and return carrying
the weight of a different tomorrow.

May God keep the hands
that labour in rain and sun,
the wheels that chase daily bread,
the feet that follow opportunity.

For sometimes,
the distance between
"I have finished work"
and "I should go again"
is only a few kilometres—

and sometimes,
it is the distance
between the life we knew
and the life we must learn
to live.