Tag: Friendship

(For Christina Lux)

Some friendships begin

in language—

ours did.

French syllables,

colonial histories,

shared passions for voices

that had survived the fracture of empire.

She met me

not just as a colleague,

but as a guide.

A quiet cartographer

mapping the places where my mind

had not yet dared to go.

When I struggled,

she suggested.

When I doubted,

she encouraged.

She handed me books

like offerings—

as if to say,

“Here. I believe in your mind.”

But Christina wasn’t just intellect.

She was presence.

When my body broke under the weight of pain,

when my children scattered toys and time

all over the floor of my life,

she came.

And helped sweep it all

into a rhythm again.

She never said: Let me know if you need anything.

She simply showed up.

And later—

when my dreams widened into job applications,

she sharpened my sentences,

dusted off my hope,

and reminded me that I had every right

to take up space.

Now,

she is a poet—

in name, in print, in essence.

She builds lines like bridges

and lifts others as she climbs.

When she moved,

we packed her memories together—

me, my children, her son—

tangled in cardboard boxes

and the sweetness of change.

She gave me books.

Stacks of them.

Their spines now lean against mine

on my shelves,

whispering her name

every time I reach for one.

And now,

as I return to my own writing,

I do it with the echoes of her care.

Christina,

you didn’t just help me

write a dissertation—

you helped me write a life

I am proud of.

You left me words.

You left me wisdom.

You left me light.

• Mary Mba (Ph.D.)