This poem is dedicated to Benoit Wobiwo
Benoit knew the power of the word.
He also knew
That to really count you have to learn.
It’s not enough to count each growing pepper vine
You also have to learn to make it count.
He knew the world was changing.
That schooling would from now
count for so much more.
His village was appearing on more maps.
And so this quiet hero spent his coin
The money he and his good wife
saved through striving on the farm.
He spent it giving words
to each and every child
Of the people in the village where he lived.
He didn’t tell and when he came to die
His wife discovered that the money wasn’t there.
He left no debts, but everlasting pride.
You can see it in his daughter’s face
As she retells.