It’s so sweet writing stories in the dark deep at midnight, even as the periodic rhythm of the frogs breath into you the nature feeling, making the senses ready to express what comes from the inner pool of feelings. Sometimes putting an idea down could be really difficult, though it’s easy to float my ink on a diary, making marks and symbols whenever I found no suitable word.
In the heart of every man lies a story and this is what makes a man. Here is a special case of a child indigenous to the African race. It cuts across pain, sorrow, anguish, terror, molestation and survival in a society where he was never entitled to a niche.
He is a writer like me; Oh yea, he writes stories but his stories were written in his heart and no one ever got to read them like you are reading mine. Interestingly, the society wrote most of the stories and I guess his only contribution were his cries that followed every word written inside him.
People called him a bastard, although he was. His mother was a young girl with an envious career already going on for her in computer science at the prestigious Nnamdi Azikiwe University Akwa until one foolish (I will rather go with the word selfish) idea brought it down like a pack of cards. Just one night stand during the Christmas break, and the African child was encapsulated within her walls (Africa has fertile soil). She had died as a result of the trauma (I-can’t-believe-this-happened-to-me syndrome) five years after his delivery and he has been left to wander the streets of Akwa.
I looked at him as he moved from store to store begging food and I could tell what he felt seeing those store owners and their children staring at him and sometimes chased him off when he attempted to pick their left overs. He slept, bathed, fed, and lived on the streets. At the tender age of six he had already seen a lot that made him stout and never got scared. One will hardly believe he was actually fair in complexion but by just looking behind his ears, you could see the sun had seriously dealt much with him. The only moment he enjoyed was when he joined the other kids to play an improvised football, oh!!!! He wished it lasted forever.
Recently, he had seen a guy few years older than him who also slept on the streets as he did. This guy made ends meet by pick-pocketing and stealing from his victims during the day and retires to their place of dwelling at night with enough to help them both daily. Now, it was a nice idea to steal but what puzzled my heart was “will God judge him if he stole?” He began stealing but he wasn’t habitual, he only stole when it was necessary because he was hungry. One day he ran out of luck when he tried stealing (taking rather) fried potatoes from a woman who sold across the street. Unknown to him the woman was aware of his plans and as he dipped his hand in the tray, the next thing he saw was darkness.
I would really love to stop here because the writer is always the first to cry in any story. I will summarize in a moment.
The woman scooped hot oil with her spoon into his two eyes. Now, he is blind with no hope of seeing again. Quite exasperating. No treatment for him and no helper to assist.
Now he cries every day at one spot. I believe he cried the first day because of what that woman did to him and the rest of the days for what his mother did to him. The woman was meant to keep waiting for the right time rather than deliver the child into the arms of the dragon (society) Rev 12: 17.
“mama, I trusted you to know better when to bring me here. I felt more comfortable within the walls of your womb than I am now. When you forced me into this world, I thought you had better plans just to come here and discover your ruthlessness; you made no preparations for me whatsoever.
The society tossed me about as if I never suckled a breast as they did. It is true you gave me life but I preferred you had done it at a later age where I enjoy your stories sitting beside my siblings.
Daddy, I wonder the kind of farmer that would plant and run from harvesting. You are still planting whereas vultures are eating up the ones you have already planted. My pains and suffering are as a result of your lack of preparations and selfishness. Pleases plan well next time”.
I am of the opinion that every African child has the fundamental right that should allow him to enjoy a home with all necessary amenities for him to excel in life. It is an ideal I wish to fight for and if need be, it is an ideal I am ready to die for. While the society continues to battle crime, the same society continues to birth crime. I was opportune to have an internship with a renowned organization in Delta state and it wasn’t in my nature to live in a place and not observe the environment and its people. The cult activities, prostitution, ruggedness, militancy were as a result of one naive girl who failed to tell when the time was right to open her legs. It hits me to my chest when I see children from one teenage mother in their maternal home eating scraps from the waste bin. God formed the woman from the man and put in the woman potential children in form of eggs so she be courteous of who she intends to replicate into the world and the time she felt was right. Remember, kings were birthed by women and the same women gave birth to thieves. The only difference between a king and a thief is plans made before their birth; a princess keeps herself and waits for a prince from another territory who definitely was prepared to receive an heir. The day we begin seeing ourselves as prince and princess then you will realize that we have potential kings to protect.
At this junction, I believe my readers have been inspired to carve out a new Africa were our children will always be a step ahead of us in our diverse endeavors. Be it as it may, I love Africa