Ndiema

 

In the heart of a village, where the sun sets low,

Lived a man named Ndiema, with a belief to bestow.

With shoulders broad and eyes ablaze,

He held firm to his principles in myriad ways.

In the square, he'd stand, amidst chatter and crowd,

Preaching his gospel, bold and unbowed.

"Men must provide," he'd declare with fervent zeal,

"Even if all that remains is a promise to heal."

For Ndiema knew, in the depths of his soul,

That provision was more than just food in a bowl.

It was the warmth of a smile, the strength of a hand,

The unwavering support in a desolate land.

Through hardship and struggle, he'd seen it unfold,

The power of hope, more precious than gold.

So he urged his brethren, with passion and might,

To offer what they could, in the darkest of night.

For when all seemed lost, and the world turned grim,

A glimmer of hope could be enough to swim.

Through the depths of despair, towards brighter days,

Where the echoes of Ndiema's words would always blaze.

So let us remember, in our trials and strife,

That provision is more than just the tangible life.

It's the intangible essence, the spark we bestow,

In the spirit of Ndiema, may its light ever grow.