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My Story: Life in the Slums

It took me a while to picture the words I’m about to tell you. But it’s now my story, my daily life, and where I came from. 

“Slums”. When you hear the word, especially when you come from a well off background, let me just whisper a “house with floor tiles and steel door for security”. It sounds startling. You imagine drugs, cheap alcohol and dirty scoundrels living in between polythene papers and have a stench smell for their cologne. That’s okay. You were never born here so let me take you home. 

Like I said before, it took me a while to picture these words. Over the years a lot had happened. From collecting scraps of metals in the junkyards to drinking spoilt milk from the waste zones, nothing had set in my mind like an appetite for anything edible to a peaceful mind. No bills to pay and fashion to appeal. The daily prayer we often had in our mind would always be ” let the dump truck find me at the site”, it’s an honor when it does. Let me unpack the honor for you. More “bread” and vegetable to fruits, pieces of cardboard that meant a warm twilight, and if you are lucky, you might find clothes for yourself. 

So as the days advance, challenges arise, we always hope for the best. Some may assume that we are dumb and stupid, but we are not. Our knowledge ranges from arterial science to dynamics mechanics to epidemiology to chemistry, but we can’t express that though. All was taken away from us by birth and the struggles of the dynasty. We don’t hustle this side. We appreciate what gets into our mouth, and the escape from the cold night. 

So if you think you are struggling, step down your ladder and look at the option you’ve got at your dispel. Robbery and theft are more of salutation and gratitude for the safety of property rather than a splendid punitive. People will always want more. So I own the scrap metal weighing territory and how I came to be is a tale. Fancy stuff is reserved for Instagram and Pinterest, and our minds and hearts.

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