Poverty — The Tale Of A Coloured Boy
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|Poverty — The Tale Of A Coloured Boy by gurupatik: 3:10 am On June 5, 2018|
I cried out in pain and agony, the candle had just fallen on my wrist and it burnt my skin.Tags: African Literature ,Poverty — The Tale Of The Coloured ,Poverty story
Anyone can remember such pain but the pain was unbearable as I cursed the wretched life we had to live, we were not beggars but at least beggars had food to eat while I had to choose between education and food. Hunger was like a brother as my parents could afford just a meal per day and it was not really a meal, we ate fruits and drank water once a day as we lived in a village with a lot of fruits and when we had “Garri” it was more than a feast.
Garri was the name everyone knew it as and it was made from cassava, Hunger was a brother and malnutrition was my best friend but at least I was sacrificing for education but was it really worth it? I was not a genius in school but I could solve anything that was not rocket science but concentration in school was hard because I had nothing to eat or drink except wild fruits and water that tasted as bad as urine.
We usually got our water from a river, it was the only one in the village and it was polluted after an exploration the government carried out, some said they were looking for crude oil but it was none of my business because I was just a young boy trying to count with an abacus.
The 2nd day of January 2001 was the day I finally left the village for the city I just can’t forget that day because it was the day I died, It was not really death but it was almost death. I was tired of the life I and my parents were living because we were the poorest in the village and my parents sold all they had to send me to school, so I decided to drown myself.
In the city life was better but everything had to come with a lot of challenges and before I knew it I was living a life of crime and self-pity and I always cried because I failed My parents, I wanted to change their lives instead of focusing on my studies. “Poverty is a bastard” were the words I always said as I went deep into a life of crime and soon I got the reward for My sins.
I woke up as the sun rays pierced through the torn curtain in my room, I checked the date and it was the 25th day of October 2005 and I stood up to make breakfast then suddenly I heard a knock on my door and when I opened the door I saw the police, they searched my house and found some Cannabis, so they dragged me away, I worked for a drug lord at 17 and it all ended as I found myself in jail but at least I was happy that I wouldn’t indulge in crime anymore.
This is the story a poor, the story of the young and helpless boy on the street, this is my story, and I am sure that I am telling the bitter tale of a lot of African boys with no hope or finances to make their lives better, I had a rough life and I don’t want that to continue for others so help that colored and poor African family you know.