I Am (Part Two)

I Am (Part Two)

by Baba Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I am.

Not because I’ve figured it all out,

But because I’ve stopped pretending I had to.

I’m not the echo of perfection

I’m the sound of becoming.

I’m the ache that turned into a prayer without words,

And the silence that answered back.

I am the barefoot boy still,

Only now the mud is wisdom.

I’ve stumbled through the hush of nights where even my shadow walked away,

But I kept talking to the stars like they knew my name.

They did.

They do.

I am the son of Marva

Still shaped by her storm-quiet courage,

Still standing because she knelt.

She wasn’t famous,

But when she spoke, the air listened.

I remember how her strength smelled like shea butter and Sunday mornings.

How she could side-eye doubt into obedience.

She didn’t preach.

She lived truth so loud,

Even the silence testified.

I am still walking in Celestine’s footprints.

Her love was firm, not fancy.

She taught me that peeling potatoes with purpose

Was just as sacred as preaching.

She didn't raise her voice .

She raised me.

I am not here to impress.

I am here to remember.

To gather all the small, forgotten pieces of who we are

And stitch them together into something warm.

I ain’t trying to be a prophet.

I’m just someone who listens when the wind talks back.

Who sits with his thoughts like they’re elders.

Who watches ants work and learns patience.

Who knows what it means to want to give up

And then decide not to.

I am not always brave,

But I show up anyway.

I have fears. I have flaws.

But I also have fire.

I write not because I got all the answers,

But because sometimes, one sentence

Can be a hand reaching out of the dark.

And I want to be that hand.

I am still the student.

Of Rumi’s whirling grace,

Of Birago Diop’s remembering,

Of Ngũgĩ’s fire-forged freedom,

Of Ben Okri’s dream logic,

Of Amadou Bâ’s breath-preserving truth.

But I am not trying to be them.

I am trying to be me

Worthy of their memory.

Worthy of their ink.

I’ve learned that you can be both soft and strong.

That crying doesn’t mean breaking,

And solitude doesn’t mean lonely.

I’ve learned that ego is a loud guest

But soul whispers

And I’d rather strain to hear soul

Than shout with the world.

I am not better than anyone.

I just finally learned to stop comparing.

To stop hustling for validation like it was oxygen.

To stop praying for an easier path

And start praying for stronger legs.

I’ve failed.

More than I’ve told people.

I’ve been bitter.

I’ve been tired.

I’ve been lost in thoughts that tried to bury me.

But I kept breathing.

And sometimes, that was the win.

I still believe in small things.

In front porches.

In hand-written notes.

In cooking something slow.

In listening more than speaking.

In the sacredness of showing up.

I don’t write because I want to be known.

I write because I want others to know

They’re not alone.

I still talk to the willow tree.

Still walk with questions and call that prayer.

Still think about how my grandfather's silence

Told stories no mouth ever could.

I am not the answer.

I am the reminder.

That the sacred lives in scars.

That softness is a kind of resistance.

That laughter is survival.

That grace doesn’t shout it waits.

I don’t need a stage.

Give me a circle, a fire, a few good ears.

Give me someone who forgot they mattered,

And I’ll give them these words like bread.

I am not trying to lead.

I’m trying to walk beside.

I am not trying to shine.

I’m trying to reflect the light I’ve been given.

I don’t want followers.

I want family.

I don’t need applause.

I just want to know

That somewhere, someone read this and whispered,

“Me too.”

I am.

Still learning.

Still listening.

Still giving thanks for breath and second chances.

I am not done.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

But I am true.

And that’s enough.

I am Baba Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar.

And I still am.