VILLAGE PEOPLE

Sometimes I wonder, if it’s me they’re chasing, or maybe I’m just running too slow for grace to catch up. Every plan I plant, a storm seems to fall on it. I water my dreams with sweat and prayer, but the harvest still hides from me like a shy sun. Maybe it’s my village people — those ancient committee of ancestors who hold grudges like unpaid debts. Maybe someone whispered my name into a place where it didn’t belong. Because how can one person try so hard, give so much, and still watch everything fall apart? Sometimes I laugh a little, tell myself, “It can’t be witchcraft,” but the laughter feels dry — like bread left too long in the open. So I tell God, if this is a test, please mark me present — I’ve been showing up every day. Still, I wake each morning, wrap hope around myself like armor, and face the world again. because even if my village people are real, they will get tired before I do.