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Ode to Those Who Never Made It Out.

Ode to Those Who Never Made It Out

Some friends didn’t make it out of the village.
Some dreams never crossed the dusty road to the city.
Some laughter still echoes in the old classrooms,
where chalk dust mixed with our morning hopes.
We once shared roasted maize by the stream,
spoke of airplanes and bright lights,
and swore we’d never return once we left.

Some never left.
They stayed—
between the banana groves and the evening fire,
between a mother’s tired song and the weight of duty.
Some traded books for hoes,
others found comfort in the familiar rhythm of the market.
Some stories froze with the first heartbreak,
some with the last exam they failed.

Gone too soon,
or never gone at all—
their names still written on wooden desks,
their laughter carried by the wind through broken windows.
Some became fathers too early,
some buried their mothers too young.
Some still wait for the letter that never came,
some forgot what waiting feels like.

We dreamed of Nyamirambo lights,
of tea and talk and traffic noise,
but they kept the quiet instead—
the call of the rooster,
the smell of wet earth,
the same moon we all once counted on.

Some teach others to read,
some mend nets by the river,
some hide the pain with wine,
some smile though the world forgot their names.
Some fought their old demons and lost,
some befriended them and lived.

To those who didn’t make it out—
we remember you.
Not for where you didn’t go,
but for who you were when the sun was still young,
when our feet were bare and our hearts were loud,
when all of us still believed
that tomorrow would find us together.