When Ghosts Come Claiming Children

Oluwagbenga Abiola
@oluwagbengaabiola322369
1 month ago

When Ghosts Come Claiming Children

Oh gather round
let us sing the anthem of the men
who specialise in appearing only in photographs
they were never present to take.

Hail them!
The fathers of legendary vanishing acts,
who slip out of responsibility
the way smoke leaves a burning hut
quickly, quietly,
without a single explanation.

Let us honour their courage,
for it takes a special kind of bravery
to watch a woman drown in motherhood
and still say,
“I’m sure she can swim.”

Here’s to the men
who believe parenting is a relay race:
the mother runs all the laps,
they appear only to collect the trophy.
Oh clap for them
after all, effort is overrated;
it’s the glory that matters.

And bless their expectations…
Ah, that royal entitlement!
Those men who never bought diapers,
never wiped a tear,
never sat beside a sick child
through nights that felt like years
yet somehow believe
they are owed a pension from children
they barely remember raising.

But cry
yes, cry
for the mothers with tired eyes
and hands that never knew rest.
Women who learned to be
both shield and sword,
roof and foundation,
discipline and affection,
while the world whispered,
“You should have chosen better.”

Cry for the mothers
who split their hearts into meals,
school fees, Christmas clothes,
punishments and prayers,
while the fathers split their time
between excuses and absence.

Cry for the woman
who wiped a child’s tears
even when her own were falling unchecked.
For the woman who said,
“Don’t worry, I’m here,”
every time life tried to prove she wasn’t enough.

Cry for her
because she did everything
and still gets only half the honour.

And yet
here come the ghosts.
Men returning with shiny foreheads
and loud claims,
announcing,
“THIS IS MY CHILD!”

Your child?
The one you never nursed?
The one whose birthday you forgot?
The one you left with a name
you were never around to answer?

Your child?
The one who grew on tears you didn’t shed,
on food you didn’t buy,
on sacrifices you didn’t make,
on courage you didn’t teach?

Your child?
Oh, the comedy of it all.
Please, someone hand them a mirror
so they can meet the stranger
they’re trying so hard to father.

But still…
the children rise.
They grow from cracked floors,
from lonely nights,
from the silence where a father’s voice
was supposed to live.

They rise into strength
carved by struggle,
into wisdom shaped by pain,
into resilience their mothers
never intended but had to teach.

And one day
when the irresponsible fathers
stretch out their hands
to collect the harvest
they never planted
the children will finally understand
that sometimes,
blood is nothing but a red liquid,
and family…
family is who stayed.

So let this poem be a warning
and a witness:

Children remember absence
louder than presence.
Mothers remember hurt
longer than apologies.
And fathers who vanish
should not expect to return
to an open door,
a warm hug,
or a grown child carrying their future.

Because love is grown,
not inherited.
Respect is built,
not demanded.
And a father
a real father
is not the man who arrived,
but the man who stayed.

Written by @oluwagbengaabiola322369

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