As a person who was raised in deprivation and rejection, I have never hidden my identity, neither have I ever claimed to be what I’m not. I know we should call things which be not as though they were, but sometimes, I have been guilty of calling things which be as they are. Over forty years ago, when I first felt the atmospheric pressure, pressures have never ceased to be, and they will never cease to be. In spite of life’s sustained pressures, we do understand that the weight on some people may be milder than those on others. What I don’t seem to understand is that those with milder pressures sometimes think that their little laden is as a result of their canny wisdom. As a result, they treat lesser mortals like rubbish bins. As someone who has eaten from the bin, I prefer to handle bins with caution. In dipping my right hand in bins, I have felt gems abandoned in trashes. When I can, I pick cans from the crash and crush, perhaps, I may be able to send them to life’s recycling centres, and then give them the hope that they can live again. A few days ago, a monster from a deluded history tried to crush my spirit. The creature sent some fiery darts from across the Atlantic. He thought he would meet me where he left me. He didn’t realise that as life has moved on, so have I. I took his weapons and turned them to inspiration; I wrote some lines that would impact a whole generation. Instead of tears, I got stirred. Instead of stress, I got spared. As I tap the buttons of the new age typewriter, I recall with a broken heart those who are in hidden corners of the earth hungry, forsaken, deprived and forgotten. I remember that Jesus fed 5000 men. How many have I fed? How many have I sent away like His disciples wanted to do? How many have I told to go to the neighbouring villages where there are no neighbours? I have a hungry soul. I am a prisoner of conscience. I am a man of no profile but preparing a file, peradventure, that dream will be brokered so that I can fulfil the desires of my inner quest. In my heart, I walk on the streets of Mogadishu. In my inner being, I am strolling in Zanzibar. I see Kampala in my sleep.
As you eat the baked beans; some people eat nothing. As you throw away the expired meal; some people are expiring. As you lose the weight; some people emaciate not by consent but by compulsion. As you throw away those clothes; some people are naked. As you wail in your sitting room to support your football club; some people mourn from days of starvation. The weight of starvation is worse than the weight of a heavy rock. The weight of starvation wails for salvation. I hear the weeping of a child in the hinterland of Africa. I hear the echo as I move closer to a rock. Oh my God, it’s an echo from the bottom of a heavy rock!