Ba'ami,
The Father of the ones who have only You left.
I am writing to You tonight as Your foster child. The one You took in when Mum and Dad never came back from Kaduna.
Every morning here starts the same way it did on that final Tuesday.
We gather. We sing. We pray. Mum's voice was the loudest that morning, holding the alto line while Dad held our hands.
We prayed for a safe journey. We gave You the day before it had even begun.
I am not writing to question You, Ba'ami. I do not understand what You are doing, but I am afraid to stop trusting You.
The loneliness follows me from room to room, and I am trying so hard to hold us together.
I clamp my jaw shut so my younger siblings do not see my hands shaking. I swallow my own tears so they can believe, even for an hour, that we are safe. But the strength is running out.
I need You to do me a favour, Ba'ami.
Since You see them clearly in Your light, please tell Mum and Dad that the will was read this week.
Tell Dad his elder brother took everything. The house, the land, the future he spent his youth sweating for, it was all signed away in his favour.
Dad, they took your house. I did not know people could wait for a man to die before showing you who they are.
Tell them that the cousins we used to play with during Christmas now look at us like stray dogs. We eat the scraps left at the bottom of the pot.
We sweep the floors of a house that should have been our sanctuary, listening to whispers that we are a burden, an extra mouth to feed.
I tell You this because You are the only Parent I have left to report to. They took the inheritance, but they cannot take Your eyes off us.
I do not know what tomorrow looks like. I do not know if anyone will fight for us, or if the things Daddy built will ever find their way back.
But I know You know where we sleep. You know what we eat. You know the names of children everyone else has forgotten.
So tonight, I will try to sleep. And You, Ba'ami, please stay awake.
Your foster child,
Still waiting to come home.
444
