Because there are people who will knock our doors
and beg to sleep on our mattresses,
people who are thirsty for water to drink
after walking for many nights across deserts,
across valleys and hills meant for insurgents,
for bokoharams planting bombs like yams on the fields,
inside old houses and empty huts.
We stay awake every night
because there are no hospitals to attend to injured beloveds,
to dying old men and women, to those whose feet tread dark paths.
We stay awake every night to see
if there will be explosions in the streets, in the mosques,
in places where people disappear after blasts,
where people weigh their grief
by counting the number of tombs filled with the dead.