They arrive the way morning does,
not asking permission,
only unfolding light across tired rooms.
In their hands are maps of survival,
creases from work that history forgot to name.
We measure riches in coins and tall buildings,
but the true treasury walks quietly among us.
It is the woman who remembers every hunger in the house,
who stretches tomorrow from the thin cloth of today,
who knows the language of endurance.
A nation’s memory sits in their voices.
Grandmothers carrying centuries in proverbs,
mothers stitching courage into ordinary days,
daughters stepping forward with questions
that make old walls uneasy.
They are not fragile things kept in glass.
They are fields after rain,
rivers that refuse stillness,
the steady pulse that keeps communities breathing
when storms circle overhead.
To call them wealth is not metaphor enough.
They are the soil where possibility roots itself,
the patient architecture of care,
the quiet mathematics of sacrifice
that multiplies life.
And if we listened closely,
we would hear the future learning its first language
in the strength of their footsteps.
Every society that thrives
has learned to guard this treasure well.
Sr. Emmanuella Dakurah HHCJ ( Sister Communicator)
