We, the Unchosen Ones

We are the ones who sit at the edge of glory like beggars outside a banquet. We clap so hard for others, our palms become altars of blood. We decorate stages we will never stand on. We pass the mic, adjust the spotlight, straighten the crown, then watch it placed on another’s head. And they tell us our reward is coming, as if grace is a delivery man who missed our street, as if destiny got distracted scrolling through someone else’s timeline.

We are the unchosen ones. The spiritual orphans of favor. The ones whose prayers return with stamps that read not yet, or worse, seen. We have mastered the art of smiling with cracked teeth and tired eyes. We cry like thieves, quiet, fast, hidden. Because sorrow, for us, must be swallowed like bitter herbs. Grief must be elegant. Pain must have posture.

We are the thankless interludes in other people’s testimonies. The extras in films we funded. They get the love story. We get the lesson. They say it’s not your time yet, as if time was a queue and not a circle that keeps skipping our name.

We are the ones people call when they need help moving their mountains. But when we need a mustard seed, even our shadows disappear. We pray with trembling bones, fast with hollowed ribs, give with calloused hands. And still, the heavens stay sealed like ancient tombs. No burning bush. No dove. No whisper. Just silence. Divine. Deafening. Deliberate.

But we endure. We endure because we have become architects of inner sanctuaries. We have built altars out of unanswered prayers. We have learnt to sing with hoarse voices and wounded throats. We have learnt that hope is a blade and faith is the scar it leaves behind. We have learnt to hold joy like a leaking bowl, never full, but always enough to drink.

We are the unchosen. Not because we lack the light, but because we have been hidden in the shade. A holy camouflage. God’s best soldiers do not wear medals. They wear silence like armor. They walk through fire barefoot with verses stitched into their skin. They bury envy like dead siblings and still show up to bless others with trembling hands.

They say success is like the sun. But we have only known its heat, never its light. We have seen it rise for others while we remained in the ash of our own burnt offerings. And still we lift our hands. Still we bow our heads. Still we whisper thanks into the void. Because somewhere beneath the fatigue and the fury, we still believe. Even if belief tastes like rust. Even if hope feels like salt on an open wound. Even if joy comes late like a drunk guest at our funeral.

We believe. Because the unchosen are not unloved. We are just unannounced. We are the seeds planted deep in the soil, rotting quietly, waiting to rise like thunder disguised as roots. And when we bloom, we will not ask for permission. We will not rehearse gratitude. We will not pretend we did not bleed for this. We will bloom like prophecy. We will bloom like revenge. We will bloom like prayers that finally got tired of waiting politely.

We are the unchosen ones. But even shadows owe their shape to the light.