Victory Beneath My Feet Poem by Linus Kithinji Njeru

A Prophetic Poem of Legacy, War, and Divine Rising

I stood on the soil my sweat had sealed,
Where dreams were sown and wounds were healed,
Where mother's hands once turned the ground—
Now shadows stirred without a sound.

I saw a cross beneath the clay,
An ancient grave, so cold, so grey.
A mark unseen by mortal eyes,
But I beheld it—truth in disguise.

They said it housed a name long gone,
A stranger's bones beneath my lawn.
But I knew deeper—past the dust,
This was no tomb—it was a trust.

Then came the voice with venom veiled,
A man whose madness never failed.
With panga drawn and fury fed,
He chased me screaming, "Your right is dead! "

But I don't run—I rise, I roar,
I've fought these wars and won before.
This land I bought with honest hand,
I call it mine—I make my stand.

For I am more than flesh and face,
I come from fire, I come from grace.
A qualified son, a Master of Finance,
But barred from gold, from rightful chance.

My papers sleep, my titles wait,
My passion locked outside the gate.
My music muffled, poems unpraised,
But I will burn—I won't be caged.

I'm a poet whose pen is a spear,
A dancer whose rhythm angels hear.
A prophet with power passed through time,
My bloodline holy, pure, sublime.

My good-blood ancestors rose and roared,
With sacred songs and flaming swords.
They broke the chains the shadows cast,
And silenced curses from the past.

They fought the witches, burned the scrolls,
They guarded dreams, they paid the tolls.
Their war is won—I feel it still,
Their spirit moves me when I'm still.

So let it echo, loud and long—
This is my land, this is my song.
I will not beg, I will not bend,
This sacred story will not end.

I call back glory, I call back gold—
The dreams I dreamed, the truth I hold.
I take my gifts, I take my place—
A son of thunder, crowned with grace.

I lead my home, I lead my kin,
The fight is fierce—but I will win.
The skies shall speak, the rivers run—
Until this nation knows the Son.

I rise with roots beneath the ground,
With voices buried but unbound.
The God of trees, of soils, of skies—
Has heard my cry—
And I shall rise.