Who takes my ideas, takes not a leaf that falls with every wind that blows. Rather they take the beat of a barren woman’s heart. A heart seeking the gift of a beat. Persistent, resilient, pleading, waiting, knowing, one day, Onyelo.
Who takes my ideas, takes not some random thoughts strung together. Rather they take the thoughts from the sweat of the one who walked through rivers for Onyelo. Into deep, forests, thick and green. Restless, praying, questioning, watching, hoping for the mere knowledge of Onyelo.
Who takes my ideas. Takes ideas birthed in perseverance. The unquenching fire that burn through delicate and thin air. Determined, persistent, relentless, Onyelo.

I spoke to my husband the other night about ideas and what to do when they are taken from you in ways you have no control. He reminded me that I birthed the ideas and when I doubt I should never forget Onyelo’s story. It’s my own too. The name alone makes complete sense once you know my history. Onyelo is all I ever need to remember for moments when even my own ideas are released to the world, out of my hand. I birthed them no matter what. So Onyelo.