There is this man I see, a respectable member of the community.
Every day he wakes up and steps into a small cubicle,
and there, his master is waiting for him,
the one who speaks to him in ways his children must never hear, the one who orders him around,
shouts at him, strips him of dignity piece by piece.
And yet, he still shows up.

I often wonder who he does this for.
Is it for the daughter who swears she hates men?
The son who wishes he was dead and envies everything his father owns?
Or the wife who throws his provision back at him because to her, it is never enough?

I wonder if he thinks of giving up, just sitting down, surrendering, refusing to take in, even one more insult.
I wonder if there is even one person who sees that he is doing well, who values him.
If appreciation ever crossed his path, would he recognize it?

Or has he settled it in his heart that no one notices his effort at all?

I see this man everywhere I go,
in the porter carrying luggage downtown,
in the taxi driver and the boda rider fighting over road space,
in the cleaner with tired eyes, and a back that aches like it is broken,
even in the man behind the laptop, typing emails and populating Excel sheets,
feeling his dreams slowly detach and walk away to die.