How To Survive A War Town: A Child's Manual Poem by Frankline Shem O.

Rule One: Never cry during the day.

People will see soft.
Soft gets you a bullet,
a bag over your head,
or a hand that touches.
No one buries the soft ones.
The flies will do it for you.
Crying makes your lips dry
and your stomach think it's time to eat.
It's not.
There's nothing left to eat.

Rule Two: Learn the language of bombs.

They speak in distances.
This one flattens buildings.
That one shreds through skin.
This one sings before it kisses.
That one whispers.
If you hear a whistle,
hit the ground.
If the ground hits back,
you're dead.

Rule Three: Don't trust silence.

Silence is the sniper's lullaby.
It comes before the crack—
the kind that takes a face off
but leaves the shoes.

Rule Four: Don't look for your parents.

They're either gone,
or pretending not to know you
to save themselves.
You'd do the same.
If they haven't come back,
war eats people—
a hand here,
a scarf there.

Rule Five: Eat anything.

And I mean anything, especially in hiding.
Mud. Pages. Rats. Bugs.
Dignity doesn't fill a stomach.
Pride doesn't keep you breathing.
Your neighbor will stab you for half a biscuit.
Your cousin will sell you for soup
made from bones boiled three times.
Hunger is louder than loyalty.
Love rots faster than meat out here.

Rule Six: Forget your name.

Names are for homes.
Names are for classrooms.
Here, you are a shadow
with lungs. That's enough.

…and memories.
Memory is a landmine.
You'll freeze staring at Mama's smile
and wake up
with no legs, and a mouth full of dust.

Rule Seven: Pray only when you're pissing.

It's the only time God listens—
because He's not busy
adding up today's death count.

Rule Eight: Sleep like a dog—

half-eyes open, body ready to run.
You'll need to leave your shoes behind.
Feet grow back in dreams.
Shoes don't outrun grenades anyway.

Rule Nine: Don't trust uniforms.

Not green. Not blue. Not white.
Even the Red Cross can smell like blood.
The worst men I know
smiled before they did it.
If a soldier smiles, run.
If he offers food, run faster.
If his hand finds your hair—
bite. Scream. Disappear.
Some uniforms taste like death
before the hunger does.

Rule Ten: Don't die in the open.

They'll use your body for cover.
Or worse—
they'll film you
and give you a name
you never had,
a cause you never chose.

Rule Eleven: There's no mourning in war. Only inventory.

If your friend dies,
take their food, their socks,
their last warm breath
if you can catch it.
Carry something small that matters:
a button. A rock.
Your brother's tooth.
Not because you need hope.
Because you need proof
that someone was real
before the fire.

Rule Twelve: Stop being a child.

Children die first.
They scream.
They run the wrong way.
They ask for Mama.
Be a shadow.
Be not-there.
Be anything else.
Just don't be a child.

Rule Thirteen: No one is coming.

Not the UN.
Not the West.
Not Jesus.
Not your uncle who says he knows people.
They're all busy posting flags
and making statements
about your death
in font size 12.

Rule Fourteen: If you survive, lie.

Tell them it wasn't that bad.
Say, "we got through it."
Say, "we were lucky."
Smile for the documentary.
Let them sleep.
Your truth is a bone they'd choke on.

Rule Fifteen: And if you do survive—

burn this manual.
There's nothing noble
about knowing it.