They called him Olodo.  

Like it was a curse.  

Like it was a name he chose.

Judged by his walk.  

Criticized by his words.  

Labeled by a life  

that looked carefree  

because caring hurt too much.

But did you ask  

where he came from?  

Did you ask  

about the house he grew in?  

The school he couldn’t afford?  

The dreams that died  

because money said “no”?

Not every Olodo wanted this.  

Some were denied.  

Some were forgotten.  

Some had to choose  

between hunger and homework.  

Between survival and school.

And yet.

Look at him now.  

Still rising.  

Still fighting.  

Still hoping  

to make his mother proud.

Because Olodo or Professor,  

we’re bleeding the same blood.  

Chasing the same light.  

Carrying the same weight  

of becoming something.

So don’t clap for certificates alone.  

Clap for the fight.  

Clap for the man  

who had nothing  

and still decided to become.

Value isn’t written on paper.  

Value is written  

in the struggle.  

In the uprising.

@PF