Oleyo Poem by Faith Cecelia Story

Baba,
when you sang Oleyo,
it did not arrive like a song—
it arrived like rain on waiting soil.

The first note opened slowly,
like dawn touching the horizon,
and my heart—
so used to surviving—
remembered how to feel.

"Oleyo…"
the word rolled like a sacred drumbeat,
a whisper and a war cry at once,
soft enough to heal,
strong enough to awaken sleeping courage.

In your voice there was dust of long roads,
there was prayer without religion,
there was a man who has known fire
and still chose to sing.

You did not just perform—
you offered something living.
Each note carried warmth,
like hands cupping a fragile flame
against the wind.

When you sang,
I saw stories in the spaces between breaths—
love that endured,
loss that taught,
hope that refused to die.

"Oleyo" became more than melody—
it became a bridge,
from your heart
to mine.

And somewhere in that crossing
I understood—
music is not sound,
it is remembrance.

So sing again, Baba,
let Oleyo rise once more—
for there are souls still wandering
who need that sound
to find their way home.