Constance K Zhakata

13/06/2026

THE CRYING VOICE

The world has lost shame.

What used to hide behind anthills
Now sits at the village square.

What our grandmothers feared to mention by the fireside
Now walks freely on the roads,
Beating its chest like a champion.

The world has become a child
Who no longer fears the whip of wisdom.

Witchcraft no longer travels at night.
It walks in broad daylight.

The servants of darkness
No longer cover their faces with blankets.
They stand in the open,
Proud as c***s at sunrise.

And people clap for them.

The river has forgotten its source.
The calf now teaches the old cow how to graze.
The cooking pot mocks the fire that warms it.

Indeed,
The world has turned upside down.

Good is called evil.
Evil is called progress.

The thief is given a chair of honour.
The liar is crowned with flowers.
The greedy man is praised for his cleverness,
While the righteous man eats alone.

Our hearts are bleeding.

For we see children growing
Without knowing the difference
Between a blessing and a curse.

We see wolves dressed in sheepskins,
Preaching peace while carrying spears behind their backs.

The land groans.

The ancestors of good character are weeping.
The graves of honest men are restless.

For the world has become shameless.

A goat that loses fear of the knife
Will soon dance into the butcher's hands.

A people who celebrate darkness
Will wake up one day
And find that darkness has swallowed their names.

Yet we shall not keep quiet.

We are the crying voice.

The voice shouting from the hilltop.

The voice warning the traveller
That the bridge ahead is broken.

We are the crying voice.

Though people cover their ears,
We shall speak.

Though people laugh,
We shall speak.

Though people call evil good,
We shall speak.

For truth is like a seed.

You may trample upon it,
You may throw dust over it,
You may bury it deep beneath the ground,

But one day,

When the season comes,

It will break the soil,
Stand tall before the sun,

And testify against a shameless world.

Constance K Zhakata

11/06/2026

When the Calabash Breaks

I stretched my hands towards tomorrow, but tomorrow folded its arms against me. I watered gardens with sweat and prayer, yet harvest season arrived carrying empty baskets.

The elders say, "The bird that trusts one branch alone will learn the language of falling." I laughed at that proverb when the sun was warm. Today, I wear its meaning like a wound.

Disappointment is a cruel visitor. It enters through the door of hope, sits at the centre of the hut, and eats the food prepared for joy.

I have watched promises melt like frost before sunrise. I have watched doors open just enough for me to see my blessing, then slam shut with dust in my eyes.

The heart is a stubborn drum. Even after being beaten, it still finds a reason to sing. Yet there are songs that break halfway, leaving only silence dancing in the throat.

I carried dreams on my head like a woman carrying water from a distant well. Careful. Patient. Determined.

But before I reached home, the calabash slipped.

Everything spilled.

The journey remained. The thirst remained. Only the water was gone.

How do you explain such pain? When your feet have travelled the distance, but your hands return empty?

How do you explain the tears that refuse to fall, choosing instead to drown the heart from within?

They say, "However long the night, the dawn will come." But some nights stretch like forgotten roads, and the darkness whispers, "Perhaps the sun has lost your address."

I have eaten the bitter fruit of waiting. I have slept beside unanswered prayers. I have shaken hands with frustration so often that it now knows my name.

Still, somewhere beneath these ruins, a stubborn seed remains.

Bruised, but breathing.

Broken, but believing.

For even a tree struck by lightning keeps its roots in the ground.

And perhaps one day, when these wounds become stories, I shall understand why the river changed its course, why the rain avoided my field, and why the calabash had to break.

But today, I simply sit with the pain, counting the pieces, and mourning the water I never got to drink.

Constance K Zhakata

10/06/2026

Life of a Hunter

Before the c**k announces the morning,
before the sun stretches its golden arms across the hills,
the hunter is already awake.

Not with a bow on his shoulder,
not with dogs running before him,
but with responsibilities heavier than a mountain of stones.

His hunting ground is the world.

Every day he enters the wilderness of life,
where opportunities hide like antelopes in tall grass,
where success leaves footprints that disappear with the wind,
where failure waits behind every thorn bush.

He hunts for school fees.

He hunts for rent.

He hunts for bread.

He hunts for medicine.

He hunts for a better tomorrow.

Some days he returns with a full basket,
his children dancing around him like birds after the rain.

Some days he returns empty-handed,
his smile forced,
his heart wounded,
his pockets carrying nothing but silence.

Yet the next morning,
he rises again.

For an African hunter knows that
the river does not stop flowing because of one dry season.

He knows that
a tree does not bear fruit the day it is planted.

He knows that
the road to the village is made by many footsteps.

So he walks.

He searches.

He knocks.

He tries again.

When doors refuse to open,
he lifts his eyes to heaven.

When people laugh at his struggles,
he kneels before God.

When the path grows dark,
he follows faith like a lantern in the night.

For he knows that the greatest Hunter
is the One who created the forest.

The One who knows where the blessing is hiding.

The One who knows where the breakthrough is grazing.

The One who guides weary feet to green pastures.

And so he prays,

"Lord,
show me where to hunt today.
Lead me where favour is waiting.
Guide my hands to honest work.
Do not let my children sleep hungry.
Do not let my hope die in the wilderness."

Then he rises once more.

Not because life is easy.

Not because he is certain.

But because surrender is a language he never learned.

He is a hunter.

A hunter of purpose.

A hunter of provision.

A hunter of dreams.

A hunter of tomorrow.

And though the forest of life is vast,
though storms roar above him,
though thorns scratch his skin,

he keeps moving.

For somewhere beyond the valley,
beyond the dust,
beyond the waiting,

God has already prepared the catch.

Constance K Zhakata

09/06/2026

The Little Girl Chasing Green Pastures

There was once a little girl born where darkness seemed to have built its home.

Every day looked like night.
Every road looked closed.
Every dream looked too big for her small hands.

Many people looked at her and shook their heads.

"That child will never reach anywhere."

But the little girl had learnt something early in life:

A bird does not stop flying because the sky is crowded.

So she started her journey.

The road was long.

The road was rough.

The road was not friendly.

As she walked, beasts appeared from the bushes.

Their eyes burned like fire.

Their mouths opened wide, ready to swallow her dreams.

Fear knocked loudly on her heart.

But she remembered that a child who fears crossing the river will die thirsty on the riverbank.

So she did not run backwards.

She ran forward.

The devil became angry.

He planted sharp knives all over her path.

The knives stood pointing to the sky like soldiers guarding failure.

The little girl stepped on some.

She fell.

She bled.

She cried.

The pain was real.

The wounds were deep.

But she knew that the chick which survives the rain becomes a strong hen.

So she rose again.

And she continued.

Step after painful step.

Tear after tear.

Scar after scar.

Then one day, far ahead, she saw something.

A small light.

A beautiful light.

A hopeful light.

It was shining from a distance.

Her heart jumped.

Could this be the green pastures she had always dreamt about?

Could this be the place where her struggles would finally make sense?

But heaven knows that before every harvest there is a season of hard labour.

The closer she moved towards the light, the harder the journey became.

The hills became steeper.

The stones became sharper.

The winds became stronger.

The darkness laughed.

"Stay where you are," it said.

"Wait for the road to become easy."

But the little girl knew another truth:

The hunter who waits for the bush to clear itself returns home with an empty basket.

So she kept moving.

Sweating.

Bleeding.

Praying.

Hoping.

Fighting.

And refusing to surrender.

There were days when her feet wanted to stop.

There were nights when her heart wanted to give up.

There were moments when failure stood before her like a giant tree.

But she pushed on.

For she understood that no matter how long the night may be, morning never forgets to come.

And one day...

The little girl reached the light.

The darkness disappeared.

The fear disappeared.

The pain lost its voice.

Before her lay green pastures.

Beautiful.

Peaceful.

Abundant.

The place she had chased for so long.

And as she stood there, tears rolled down her cheeks.

Not tears of pain.

Not tears of sorrow.

But tears of victory.

For she finally understood that the beasts had not come to destroy her.

The knives had not come to finish her.

The storms had not come to break her.

They had all come to prepare her.

For green pastures are not for those who quit when the road becomes rough.

They are for those who keep walking when others sit down.

They are for those who keep believing when others lose hope.

They are for those who keep running when their feet are wounded.

Because persistence is power.

Hard work is power.

Endurance is power.

And every child who refuses to surrender will one day find the light waiting beyond the darkness.

Constance K Zhakata

08/06/2026

WHEN I REACH THE SUN

They ask me what I will do
when I reach the sun.

Will I dance among the clouds?
Will I boast before the valleys
that once laughed at my stumbling feet?

Will I wear my victories
like a crown too heavy for my head?

No.

When I reach the sun,
I will remember the darkness.

I will remember the nights
that stretched longer than hope,
the seasons when my prayers
returned carrying silence.

I will remember the empty pockets,
the closed doors,
the dreams that survived
on nothing but faith.

For the sun is not beautiful
because it shines.

It is beautiful
because it rises after every night.

When I reach the sun,
I will not mock the mountain.

The mountain taught me endurance.

I will not curse the storms.

The storms taught me courage.

I will not despise the valleys.

The valleys taught me humility.

For every scar upon my soul
is a signature from the journey.

And when I finally stand
where my dreams and reality shake hands,
I will turn around
and look for those still climbing.

The weary.

The forgotten.

The broken-hearted.

The ones whose tears
water the seeds of tomorrow.

I will tell them:

"Do not surrender.

The road is long,
but your feet were made for it.

The night is dark,
but dawn knows your name."

And when I reach the sun,
I will discover a truth
greater than success itself:

The sun was never the destination.

It was the light
that taught me how to become.

And in becoming,
I found something brighter
than the sun.

Myself.

Constance K Zhakata

08/06/2026

BEYOND THE UPHILL

I have walked where the road rose like a stubborn mountain,
where every step demanded a conversation with pain,
where hope grew thin as a dry river in August,
and dreams trembled beneath the burden of waiting.

Many saw my smile,
but they never counted the stones hidden in my shoes.
They never heard the battles I fought in silence,
nor the prayers I swallowed when answers refused to come.

The uphill was long.

It taught me that strength is not found in muscles,
but in a heart that chooses tomorrow
even when today has broken it into pieces.

It taught me that tears are not signs of defeat.
Even the clouds must empty themselves
before the earth can bloom.

I met people who left when the journey became difficult.
I met doors that closed without explanation.
I met nights so dark
that morning felt like a forgotten promise.

Yet the hill kept speaking.

It whispered,
"Keep walking."

When my legs shook,
it said,
"Keep walking."

When failure sat beside me
and introduced itself as my future,
it said,
"Keep walking."

And now,
standing beyond the uphill,
I finally understand.

The mountain was never there to stop me.
It was there to shape me.

The delays were sharpening patience.
The disappointments were teaching wisdom.
The losses were making room for lessons
that comfort could never teach.

For beyond the uphill,
the air feels different.

You breathe with gratitude.
You see with understanding.
You speak with gentleness.
You carry scars,
but no longer carry shame.

The person who reaches the top
is never the same person who began the climb.

And perhaps that is life's greatest secret:

The hill is not the destination.

The hill is the teacher.

And beyond it,
waiting quietly beneath the sunrise,
is the version of you
that the struggle was preparing all along.

Constance K Zhakata

08/06/2026

The good Lord said write. Tiktok said serve face. I compromised 😭

08/06/2026

07/06/2026

EL SHADDAI

Before the mountains learned their names,
You were.
Before the rivers found their course,
You were.
Before the first breath kissed the dust of the earth,
You were God.

El Shaddai,
Ancient of Days,
King without beginning,
Master without successor,
I bow before Your throne of glory,
For every crown belongs beneath Your feet.

You speak,
And galaxies bloom like wildflowers across eternity.
You whisper,
And storms fall silent in reverence.
You stretch out Your hand,
And the broken find healing in Your shadow.

Who is like You, El Shaddai?
The heavens cannot contain You,
Yet You dwell within humble hearts.
The earth is Your footstool,
Yet You stoop to wipe the tears of the weary.

You loved us when we were unlovable.
You called us when we were lost.
You carried us when our strength became a fading candle.
You remained faithful when our faith trembled.

Your mercy arrives before judgment.
Your grace outruns our failures.
Your love flows deeper than oceans,
Wider than horizons,
And higher than the dreams of men.

El Shaddai,
The Giver who asks for nothing.
The Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine.
The Father whose arms never close.
The Light no darkness can swallow.

I bring You my voice,
Though it is too small for Your greatness.
I bring You my praise,
Though it cannot measure Your glory.
I bring You my heart,
For it is all I truly possess.

Let every sunrise sing Your name.
Let every star testify of Your power.
Let every nation declare Your majesty.
Let every living soul proclaim:

El Shaddai!
God Almighty!
The Beginning and the End,
The Author of mercy,
The Fountain of grace,
The Keeper of promises,
The Eternal Flame that never fades.

And when my final breath leaves this borrowed body,
May my spirit still cry what my tongue cries today:

Holy are You.
Worthy are You.
Glorious are You.
Forever and ever,
El Shaddai.
Amen.

Constance K Zhakata

06/06/2026

To The Woman I Called Home

I never imagined I would write these words to you.

Not to the woman whose name lived in my prayers.
Not to the woman whose hand I held when our children entered this world.
Not to the woman I chose, every day, even when life became heavy.

Yet here I am.

Writing a goodbye to the woman I called home.

Do you remember when we had nothing?

When our dreams were bigger than our pockets?
When we sat beneath a leaking roof and promised each other that better days were coming?

We were not rich.

But we were together.

And somehow, that was enough.

I worked until my bones ached.
I carried burdens I never spoke about.
I fought battles you never saw.

Not because I was strong.

But because every road led back to you.

Led back to us.

Led back to the little hands that called me Father.

I thought I was building a family.

I did not know I was building it alone.

The day I found you with another man,
the world did not stop.

The birds still sang.
The wind still moved.
The sun still hung in the sky.

But something inside me died.

I stood there looking at you.

Looking at him.

Looking at the ruins of a life I thought was real.

And for the first time,
I understood that a heart can break without making a sound.

You cried.

God knows you cried.

You held my hands.

You called my name.

You begged me to stay.

You said it was a mistake.

You said it meant nothing.

You said you loved me.

But tell me, my love,

where was that love when another man's hands found a place that belonged to our marriage?

Where was that love when our vows became lighter than temptation?

Where was that love when you traded years of trust for a moment you cannot even keep?

You begged me not to leave.

But yesterday, you were not afraid of losing me.

Today, you fear my departure.

Yesterday, you welcomed my replacement.

I wish I could hate you.

Hatred would make this easier.

Instead, I am cursed with memories.

Memories of your smile.

Memories of our wedding day.

Memories of our children running into our room before sunrise.

Memories that now feel like photographs rescued from a burning house.

Part of me still loves you.

And perhaps that is the cruelest wound of all.

Because the person I love no longer exists.

She vanished the moment I found you.

Now there is only a stranger wearing her face.

One day our children will ask questions.

They will ask why their father left.

They will ask why the house became quiet.

They will ask why two people who once laughed together could no longer share a table.

And I will swallow my pain.

I will protect your name.

I will hide the sharp edges of this story from their innocent hearts.

Not because you deserve it.

But because they deserve peace.

You shattered my trust.

And trust is a strange thing.

A clay pot may survive many journeys.

But once it falls and breaks,
no amount of apology can return it to what it was.

You can gather the pieces.

You can glue them together.

You can pray over them.

But the cracks will always remain.

I forgive you.

Not because the wound is small.

Not because the betrayal is easy to bear.

But because I refuse to spend the rest of my life chained to this pain.

Forgiveness frees my heart.

It does not restore our marriage.

So tonight, I leave.

Not because I stopped loving you.

But because I finally learned that love cannot survive where trust has been buried.

I leave carrying memories.

I leave carrying scars.

I leave carrying the pieces of a future that will never exist.

Goodbye.

To the woman I once prayed for.

To the mother of my children.

To the keeper of my happiest memories.

Goodbye...

To the woman I called home.

Constance K Zhakata