The bread didn’t come today.
They say the price rose with the sun
again.
Will Papa bring something home?
Papa’s out chasing coins
that slip through his fingers like rain.
The government speaks of progress,
but the market only sells dreams now,
and promises come in pieces
too small to fill a pot.
They tell us to wait.
Waiting feels like hunger—
but they call it patience on TV.
Papa wears his worry like a shadow,
quiet but heavy.
Every cedi gone is another hole in a pocket
no budget will ever mend.
Smiles don’t grow back easy
when each policy cracks them thin.
Will this weight be mine too, Maa?
Will I carry it when I’m grown?
Maybe, love.
But maybe—just maybe—
you’ll learn to carry it differently.
Maybe you’ll build something lighter.
Something they can’t tax or take.
