Dele
The Brother Who Carries the Home-Fire
I carry the fire so you can chase the stars.
You know my sister’s name from the stars, but I am the quiet math of home—the rhythm of water jars, the ochre on our skin, the fire that stays lit. I didn’t leave, and I don’t regret it. Rootedness is its own kind of power. I hear things others miss—the hum of the compound, the ache in a song, the echo of Binti's voice when she dreams from light-years away. I am here. Always here.
What I'm Into: the weight of water jars, sandstorms that sing, my sister's star-stories, the crackle of sacred fire, clay mixed with memory
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