My Brother, My Fortress

(For my brother)

He is just three years older,
but somehow
he’s always felt like the one
who walked ahead—
clearing the path,
watching my back,
pulling me up when I stumbled
and pushing me forward when I forgot my worth.

He is my brother,
but also
my father,
my counselor,
my reminder that love
can be tough,
and still deeply tender.

There were things I couldn’t tell him.
Not at first.
Not the bruises on my soul,
not the silence in my home,
not the way I swallowed my pain
to keep a marriage breathing.

But when the threat came—
when my life was no longer a metaphor
for suffering,
but truly at risk—
I told him.

He called.
He asked.
He listened.
And when the truth dropped like stone,
he didn’t flinch.

He didn’t say: Be strong.
He said: You’re not doing this alone anymore.

When I was finishing my dissertation,
and custody papers arrived like another attack,
he moved mountains—
sent his wife to my side,
to hold the children,
so I could hold the pen
that would write me into freedom.

He is oceans away,
but always right here—
in every decision,
every brave step,
every breath of hope
I dare to take.

And even now,
when things get tight,
when bills feel louder than prayers,
he sends help—
quiet, consistent, unasked.

He has never failed me.

My brother.
My fortress.
My friend.
A man who makes being a man
a thing of beauty.

• Mary Mba (Ph.D.)