ỌFỌ

The miracle did not shout my name.
It came like a soft tap inside my chest:
A delay!
A missed step!
A quiet feeling that said,
Do not go yet.

I once turned back for no reason.
The bus I missed later broke.
People called it luck!
I stood shaking!
Knowing something unseen,
Had stood where I could not.

My people say “Chi m nọ ebe a”
(my spirit is here with me).
They believe each life walks,
With a helper that does not sleep.
Call it angel.
Call it chance.
I call it care.

As a writer, my words once dried up.
No sound!
No meaning!
Then, in the night,
One line arrived full and clear.
Like it was not mine.
I wrote it down,
And my breath returned.

In the West, elders whisper “Àṣẹ”
(may it be so).
They say good words travel ahead of us.
That blessing can wear human skin:
A smile!
A warning!
A hand that stops you,
From falling.

Miracles frighten me sometimes.
Because they ask questions:
Who is watching?
Who counts our steps?
Why are we saved,
When others are not?
I do not know.
I only feel the weight of mercy.

Now I walk slower through the world.
I listen more.
I thank what I cannot see.
Because something good,
Keeps happening,
Without asking permission.
And that quiet goodness,
That is the miracle.