14/06/2020
Date June 14/6/2020
How I became a demon: A true life story.
For boys like me, who are offspring of a broken home, joy is an impossible tense. The last time I saw my mother was thirteen years ago, in a pool of blood when she had an accident that claimed her legs. Father said it was her punishment for bewitching his younger wife from giving birth, even though she would later have three children. Polygamy is a mess, maybe that was why the Christian god despises it. In my family, everybody is a stranger, and the dawn is a means of escaping from the reality of living in hell. I seek solace in the wee hours of the night, as that is the only time I can un-bottle my pain and make my emotions flow, for fear of being called a weakling.
When I was much younger, prior to her accident, mother was an isolated room where father dumped refuse of hate. I’ve seen him whipped mama’s back with his long koboko while she scream and yell in pain, I’ve seen him drill bumps on her face with his fist. I don’t know how their love turned sour, or perhaps, theirs was lust and not love. My father is a butcher, many times, I’ve seen him butchered mom’s feelings with wistful words.
After mom’s accident, I had to leave hell- home in search of paradise. It was never a home in the first place. I ran into the street, and it welcomed me in open arms. My first night on the street, I learnt how to smoke. The only way to ease my pain is to wrap my fears into rolls of ma*****na, smoke them, and watch the flames ascend to the sky like a ram offered in prayer. I was told, that the only way to have zero worries is to find satisfaction in the content of gin bottles, and drink away my sorrows. There was so much joy and peace on the street than I ever found in the place called home.
To survive on the street, you have to be stone- hearted. Those whose hearts are soft as silk have their life hanging on their sleeves. On the street, respect is not reciprocal. You earn it, but not without bloodshed. I remembe
