Wednesday, 24 September 2014


Life in the streets is not a walk in the park or a bed of roses. That part you willingly understand but anything more than that is pretense on my part, so you claim. I do not know who my father is and my mother is a drunk. I have countless siblings and I sleep in different places every day. Under the bridge is termed lucky from where I come from. Nevertheless, you do not believe me. A meal a day is a great blessing but it is easily goes without thanks for you.

Life in the ghetto is not a walk in the park but you say I chose it anyway. I was born out of my parents’ choice not out of mine. My parents fight every day; I am not even sure who my father is anymore because many have slept in our house over the past many moons since my birth. Every night brings with it quarrels and brawls. I live in a house where peace arouses suspicion. Many days we go without food because we are too many and my mother is only concerned about feeding the man who will sleep with us tonight. When I ask you for food, you dismiss me. You say I chose this life so I should have known. 

Life in poverty is not something to smile about but you laugh at my face when I am at your door to sell you nuts. You laugh and ask me where I think money comes from. You chase me away and tell me to go beg elsewhere. Before I knocked at your door, I had been chased away by someone else. Every Sunday, you all gather in church. In your flashy cars and expensive clothes. You give out money, and a new church is built. To accommodate the more of you. You all agree in unison to help the society become a better place, but you do not look at me twice. I just need a coin. I know I am pest, every day I’m begging. But what should I do? 

Now, here I am. I am a thief. I am a rebel, as you call it. I harass you to give me money because politely asking does not work with you. I am mad. I am mad at my parents, who I am not even sure I know. I am mad they brought me to this world. It is hell for me for all I know. I am mad at you. For pretending to care on Sundays but treat me like a nuisance for the rest of the week. I know I smell, showering is not a norm in our home, if I have one. I know I am ill mannered; I did not get the chance to be schooled and be literate and learn how to behave. I am mad at society. If you have no intention of taking care of us, don’t fill us with the thought that you are. It hurts more. 

My life has no future. I do not even understand the meaning of future. I simply go by; trying to get a meal and a place to sleep is my only concern.

I wrote this a year ago. Found it in my archives and just thought I should post.


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Everyone has 24 hours a day, difference is how you use it up. I am a cocktail of a lady who loves art and is tech-savvy.

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