Mbogholi

Mbogholi, a name that rumbled like the drums,

A man of strength, with sun-baked, weathered thumbs.

He'd built his life on muscle, sweat, and stone,

No time for fancies, books were left alone.

The world, he thought, was writ in field and sky,

Why waste on paper what the clouds could ply?

But Mbogholi's silence, though a kind of speech,

Held little weight with those who learned to preach.

One day, a trader, smooth with honeyed tongue,

Left Mbogholi with pockets light and sung

A song of folly, spun with cunning art,

Mbogholi, trusting, played a losing part.

The village scoffed, "He cannot read the signs,

A simple man, an easy mark he finds."

Mbogholi felt a prickle at his core,

A sudden shame, a truth he'd missed before.

The world, he saw, held whispers in the breeze,

But some were coded, locked in lettered seas.

The rustle of a page, a whispered line,

Could hold a power both fierce and fine.

With fire in his eyes, and purpose newly sown,

Mbogholi sought a wisdom yet unknown.

He'd crack the code, these symbols, black and white,

No longer would he be an open page at night.

He learned with struggle, brow furrowed in might,

Each word a key, unlocking hidden light.

The world expanded, stories filled his head,

No longer would he be an easy read.

So let them judge by wrinkles, hands that calloused grew,

Mbogholi now held whispered wisdom too.

For in the pages, secrets learned to speak,

And Mbogholi's silence, finally, became unique.