I was just four years old at the time.
I heard them fighting. And they have been fighting ever since.
When father left the next day, it was the last I ever saw of him.
I found my ma, crumpled on the floor, tears like a river soaked her on all fours
She tried to hide behind a smile..but her eyes told stories my mind was still little to understand. So I wrapped her in my small arms and rocked her till she fell asleep…untill she stopped breathing..untill I felt her go weak…and her hand fell to her side and her eyes turned white and the dark pupils hidden inside her head, and her once beautiful face constantly bruised by his fist.
My mother had died, in my feeble arms..from a broken heart and maybe a broken skull and left me alone to the harsh realities of live. To fend for myself in this cold dark world.
I was 10 years old, when I carried my first knife and threatened a woman for her bag of groceries and an old man for his wallet. I lived on the streets and slept under the bridge. I wore just a pair of shorts and had a black singlet that had holes big enough for eyes and a worn out slippers that had stood the test of time.
Unfamiliar of that small boy years ago.. who felt love from his mother’s bosom and wished for a smile from a father’s heart. No one had come to claim him, other than claim his inheritance. No one had given him a home other than to send him to the streets,place his mother in a caravan and allowed vultures to have a feast. No one had loved him other than to curse him. So no one but him had him, so he became the streets and lived it as he wills.
I was 16 years old when I fired my first gun, shattering the window of a barber’s shop to get into and claim his day’s worth. I moved around with the hood. Smoked joints and played with the syringe. My tats read “the abandoned” but my heart had melted to stone. I cared for nothing. Feared for nothing. All I knew and had was me. Life meant nothing other than a hit to make, more money to steal and be a tyrant to foes and have a good night sleep in refugee camps or inside the garage of a mafian gang.
I was 24 years old. Shoulders broad. Face that was hardened by life. Eyes that had never genuinely smiled when I saw him, in the arms of another woman, face between her bosom and fly opened where her hands disappeared into. I knew even without thinking…. that face had plagued me all my life. Haunted my dreams and made a little boy cry…when he watched his mother die in his tiny arms after he turned his back and went out the door without much of a goodbye . So without thinking, anger radiated though like blood in the veins…hands clutching the knife always in my pants …I went to him…close enough so he could see…close enough to make him see the hurt in my eyes and the pain in my heart…
“Do you remember me father…??”
The pain in my chest when he looked at me strangely. The ripping of my heart when he laughed in my face and spat on the ground….”Am glad she died. You know she was a feeble one. You are all grown up . A man now…so you must understand. You must hurt people at times to make them happy. But I was never a man to stay tied down to one woman…and I never wanted a son who loved like a girl”
He continued to bury his face in her thick softness. Their laughter causing my bones to flex. The loud scream in my head caused my eyes to be blinded for a second..and in one quick move…a slash..a cut..and blood splurted out and ruined my shirt..
I left both of them entwined in their bloodied embrace..unseeing, unfocused …my eyes blurred by tears…crying for my mother…crying for the little boy…and then for the man who had murdered his father but those tears were not for the man who died. For him I held no regrets …
And I lived from that day as one would…alone ..abandoned and without a home..Other that what the streets gave me…a place to call my own. I became…the streets and the streets became me.