It is not a log of wood, nor is it a heap of discarded waste. No, it is a human being. Skin barely covered up with the rag remnants of his cloth, sprawled out by the road side where he breathed his last. It’s a dead man. The visible ribs that push against the thin skin of the chest tell a tale. A tale of lack, of want and of a many hopes dashed. The city awakens to this sight and we sigh at it and throw our face away as we pass by as if ashamed of a state we all shall ultimately end up in. Nobody comes for him. Nobody misses him. So the roadside becomes his tomb, until perhaps the city authorities arrive and put him in a body bag.
He ambushes you in the traffic. No he is not an arsonist, he is barely ten. On one hand is his fabricated brush and in the other a container of soapy water. They are his most prized possessions on earth. Virtually all he’s got really and all he yearns for is the pleasure of the next meal, whenever possible. Cleaning your windscreen is his ticket to that meal. Most times you shoo him away. Sometimes he picks your phone and dashes away. He is just a boy, and at that hour should be in class. But he is out here tracing his way to manhood, stopping in his track only when the sun sets.
The headline sounds a little too good to be true for you. But good enough to make you shake your head in disgust all the same.
Read full article in Daily Times of Thur 19th May 2011.