Written By Aisa
I was in the warmth of your womb for nine months.
I could feel you bore me with your last funds
And fed me with the best manner you could give;
Your malnourished breast milk.
You were happy to witness my first cry.
Your smiles dripped down your worn out tie
But when I could smile back too, you never cared.
You should have told mama you weren’t really prepared.
I’m still roaming the street you threw me to.
Funny enough, we are many not just two.
At times I walk the cruel street alone,
My tattered shoes carrying me along.
The scorching sun makes me sick
But am a stranger so no one gives me a pick.
My stomach would rage unending wars
But the only sword I possess are my “sweet sores”.
I sip the juice out to defend my helpless breath.
As a child warrior, its my only way to escape shameful death.
The street has left me emaciated.
Memories of you, feeds me with regrets now am over fed.
While I see other kids play with pleasure,
I play with pain under the beating rain,
With no parents to refrain.
I can’t remember our last kiss
I guess in your world, I don’t even exist.
A child is a blessing
But I’m only a menace to my society.
When I beg for alms, I’m called a liability.
Well I don’t even know what that means.
I’ve knocked on doors and cried out loud as I was taught
But even dogs bark and throw me out.
I thought I could feed from their cage
I’m human, but they treat me with rage.
I thought without you I would be lost and confused
I am, Mama
But if parenting were a contest, I bet with my last breath that you’ll lose.
I’m left with wounds that heal slowly
But the scars on me even fade slower.
Dear Mama and Papa,
I’m unsecured. I’m a bait to the insurgents.
The broken bridge is my home
And every night, I commune with mosquitoes that make me groan.
Do you feel the same?
We once had a bliss
But ignorance has torn us apart.
I’m lost in identity crisis.
I don’t know who I am.
Guess I’m a national disgrace.
What’s my destiny?
Is this how you let future leaders end?
Why not sensitize our parents?
I’m not alone in this stigmatized tent.
Beg our parents to conceive when they can
For if tomorrow I hold a title,
I’ll put this to ban and put culprits behind bars.
I’m a prospective father too
So the hurt in my heart boils back to you.
You’ve given me the street as a first school
So these are my last words to you:
“If a hundred of you were still alive,
(Don’t know if you are though)
There will be more students to dive and drown in this endless despair”
Yours sincerely, Child.