Under a roof thatch born,
The flesh of my mama torn,
I wish I was never born,
As that day my mama was gone.
A cup of water to me is a trophy,
A tea-spoon full of honey, I am lucky.
A teenager, my head bears cement bulky
In the site as my sweat makes my tongue taste salty.
Red spots body-over, a daily routine
As mosquitoes make me their protein
As I lay at night without a curtain
And clothes I possess without button.
My mates on Sundays I see wearing the tie,
As at me they stare while passing by
Like a dirty dog about to die.
Begging, I notice not my cry.
In anticipation, I await the day
Where from church a man shall to me say
“Your pain is over boy so come my way”
Like the after storm sun-ray.