Ashe Kiba
Born beneath mountains
that whisper old songs,
a child arrived wrapped
in God’s quiet plan.
Soft limbs bending
like broken twigs,
yet a soul
forged stronger than iron.
They stared.
They whispered.
They named her curse.
She hid beneath ponchos
stitched with love,
shielding the tender storms
she carried.
Children pulled at her poncho
as if unveiling a spectacle
oh, that moment
sharpened like knives.
“How I wish…”
became a silent prayer
engraved upon
her lonely walk home.
Yet inside her mother’s
woven bag
she carried more than books;
she carried a future.
Classrooms misjudged her fingers.
And many nights
she drowned
in the ache of invisibility,
a young girl stitching sorrow
into her own pillow.
But God writes stories
in paradox.
When despair whispered
that life was too heavy,
love intervened,
and lungs that almost stopped
were commanded
to breathe again.
“Obey, or God will make you like her.”
How cruelly humans
twist God’s voice.
Yet from these ashes,
a phoenix stirred.
On January 1, 2015,
a fire lit beneath her ribs.
She made a covenant
with her spirit
to rise for every voice
silenced like hers.
She walked out as a warrior
into new worlds
where her story became a lamp
in the hands of strangers.
There she was never
monster, taboo, curse,
but simply
beautiful. Able. Equal.
Her sleeves opened too,
revealing the limbs she once hid
as winter hides the ground.
And slowly,
the girl of How I Wish
became the woman
of Here I Stand
strength for the hidden,
a storm against silence,
a bridge
where there once were walls.
Some called her alien.
Some called her daughter.
But God called her
a purpose in motion.
Now she carries no shame,
only fire
fire that lights the path
for every child
behind four walls of fear,
for every parent who trembles
over an uncertain tomorrow,
for every PWD whose wings
were clipped
before they learned to fly.
Her message echoes
over the hills
of her homeland:
Beyond disability,
there is ability.
Beyond rejection,
there is resurrection.
Beyond brokenness,
there is a warrior.
Today, Illi stands
not as someone fixed,
but someone transformed;
not as someone hidden,
but someone seen;
not as someone pitied,
but someone powerful.
Once, disability
was her weakness;
now disability
is her strength.
The poet Ashe Kiba lives with 80% locomotor disability. The Ballad of Illi reflects her own journey growing up with little to no awareness of disability. Through this poem, she embraces the memories of every step she has taken with a cheerful smile. On this auspicious International Day of Persons with Disabilities, she shares her poem as an act of celebration and self-congratulation, reminding herself of the profound importance of self-acceptance.
