I was born barefoot on a jagged rock in a black land with black men. I was born in Nigeria. That's my country. Like the production of a film, each scene is influenced by the actors and ah yes, setting as well. My movie is not any different, or unique in any way. Except that to see the face of each actor, you would have to go behind the scenes, where we were unfurled and free, basking in the consciousness of life and existence. I am no baby or child or boy or man. I'm just a little voice crying in the wilderness, telling of what we have seen, shouting our experience. I am only human. When I and the boys were born, mother bought us no diapers or wipes like the other kids from tomorrow. We were settled with loincloths that would be removed when soiled, to be washed and worn again. We never slept in the rocking cot or stood in the walking trainers. So we had to crawl on fours till our feet were strong enough to walk us. And yes we would fall. Big, heavy falls and yes we would stand up with tears, and we would walk again. When I and the boys were younger. We were bought no toys or action figures like the kids from yesterday. We had to settle for sticks and fingers and stones and rocks. Coming home each day with a bruise or two. Wailing out loud to mother who would bathe and clean our wounds and send us out to bring in some more again. We had no tasty food or snacks or sweets so we would go to Mr. Bello's store, and buy some with our snatch and speed. And his belt would smile at us. And the welts on our backs would tell us that we did the right thing. When the mobile phone came around, I mean within our reach. I and the boys would go to the home of the only boy who had one, and we would sit around him, our eyes fixated upon the wonder in his palm. He would press some buttons and we would see a little man in green fighting against another in blue. He would press some more buttons and we would witness the lady with the white skin take off her clothes, and walk around in her birthday suit and a man would come around, dressed in the same attire. And they would do things together that would spread warm smiles on our faces. When I and the boys were older, we loved em female girls. The ones who would let us take off their dresses, and do things when mother wasn't home. We each had a girl, special to each of us. And things were rough. Yesterday I cried over Maria, as she called at night and told me she was no longer my girl and how she let one of the other boys from tomorrow take off her dress. He gave her money she said. What have I ever given her? I bit on my lip as the tears flowed. Yes, I cried. And tomorrow, I will cry again over Marianne or Sophia. Yesterday, Maestro died. He was felled with bullets by some of the other boys from yesterday. The streets are not too safe, especially for me and the boys. His mother cried so much, deep tears of anguish and resentment. We didn't cry for Maestro, but we may cry for Aluta or Robin or me when we fall tomorrow. I and the boys met social media about a year ago. He introduced himself to us and he was all warm and smiling. But now he seems to bite us in the back with sharp teeth, the earlier friendliness seems all forgotten. He's very scheming. Knows how to cause much havoc, especially amongst me and the boys. I enjoy him sometimes. Most times I would say. He even killed a girl last summer, when he showed everyone her pictures of her hidden regions. I never saw her after that. We all never did. I and the boys take some drinks. It keeps us happy, makes us feel better, makes us forget, all the worries and pains. Fredrick would say with some smoke in his lungs "I like to get high, cos I love the view from up here." And we would all laugh and drink some more. Grades at school don't matter to me and the boys. But it matters much to our parents, so we try to get some good ones, or at least okay ones. Fashion matters a lot, the latest Sneakers, coolest jeans and shirts. The girls love the guys who look good. So we try to keep up with the trend. That's what happened in that scene of my movie and more which you would learn of from others like me. That's what happened when I had hopped aboard older ship. Do you like my movie yet? Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Just stick around and watch some more. Maybe you will see some Experience. When I and the boys are dead, we would pass just like the rest. We made no impact, struck no blow on this generation. That's what some time behind some bars taught me, that's what he told me through the silence and solitude. So now I change. The boys are gone now. It's just me. Now I teach, the little tots. Guide them right, lecture them of good. Let's see what their generation creates. Mine is already fading fast away, as dust in the wind.

The cold tonight was bitter and bad, nipping with sharp bites at our toes and fingers as we slept in the monotonous alleyway of beggar street. Ever since the little greeny virus came around; the one that made one all wheezy and coughing, we didn't see much of our friends anymore. Yeah, they were told to stay at home because the virus was airborne and spreading, but they should have stopped by sometimes yunno. I remember when poor Tom got infected, and he was all sick and wheezy, when they came around and took the lot of us to some secluded place, where we got good food and bathing water. I sincerely thought that that was the end of all our problems. But after two weeks, they again took the lot of us, and returned us back to the streets. Back at the space, each one of us staring into empty space, waiting for that one kind person, longing for that one good heart, but they never came. Seems they forgot that we existed. Night came with its darkly blanket, the warmth of the day departed. Then I noticed that the holes on my cover cloth seemed bigger tonight, as big as the hunger I took to bed. When the morrow came, we sat again watching in hope, but no one passed by beggar street again. Then old Fredrick let out a good laugh. "George, how about you go walk around and stroll down to rich street. You could sit by the statue there, maybe someone will see you there." "What if they don't notice me? Yunno the virus has drained the lot of em, they can't come out to make money, so they even forget to share." "Well, it ain't better than sitting your old ass around here. The holes in our bellies ain't gonna fill themselves, worse still the worms in there would soon start feeding off us. There's still a chance you get something over there. I would've gone myself, but my legs still aren't able to walk me." Fredrick retorted One early morning, I awoke with a sharp pain in my belly. Immediately I knew what I must do. I called out to Fredrick. "Yo, Fredrick, I'd be going over to rich street today. I can't take the hunger any longer. I'd see if I can get some for you and I." Fredrick gave no response. He must be sleeping I thought. I moved over and gave him a nudge but he didn't budge. I turned his face around and Alas! I saw he was gone. The white of his eyes told me as much. The still of his heart said it all. Straightaway, I moved away and began my stroll from beggar street to rich street. I got there late in the day, I found my way to the statue and spent the night there. In the morning; I put out my alms bowl, my palms extended, my head reclining, and then I began to mourn. Poor Fredrick, poor Tom, poor Robin, poor me. The tears began to roll with each passing of time, with each human that walked by, and as the day grew older. My eyes were gradually dimming as though spent of the tears. They were struggling to stay open, sleep suddenly became sweeter. I fought each wave, fought to stay awake, but I was succumbing with each take. Then I saw an angel, little as child, female as girl, smiling as light, and she touched to my palm. "What's your name sir? Why are you out here? Where is your home?" Her voice was as calm as the waters, as still as the gentle breeze. I wanted to answer her, tell her of all my turmoil's, but my speech failed me. Soon a person appeared. Old as elder, female as woman; with a worry creased brow, she spoke out aloud. "Sarah, why did you leave the house. I've been looking everywhere for you." "I saw this man; he's been here for a while. He looks hungry and tired, let's help him out." "Sarah, let's go away. You shouldn't talk to strangers." "But mum, he needs help, just look at him." "We don't have much, we can't afford giveaways." "Mum, yes we don't have much, but why do we have, if we can't share." Those words warmed my heart, brought life back to my bones, and sparked the dying fire of hope in me. The woman looked at me for a while, pity ran around the corners of her eyes. She asked me in a low tone. "Kind sir, would you like to come in my house for a while. I have some food, water, a change of clothes, and somewhere you can rest your head a while. Again, my speech failed me, so I just offered a smile and a nod of my head in response. The little one did a little dance and hugged her mum. Oh! I have never seen one so happy to do good. Now I'm in a better place. From her house, she took me to someplace where they tended for those who didn't have during this Covid-19 period. I was shocked and touched that the government had put the likes of us in mind. I told them of beggar street and of Ricky and Joe and Amos and the rest. They soon joined me and we were all happy together. The government sent food and water to us from time to time, and even though we slept in tents, it was still better than out in the open. The worst has now passed, and I look towards the future, it looks brighter now. A little kind act did save my life.

When I was younger, I lived all alone with my mum. Her face was always the same, her cheeks coloured by the twin dabs of powder she applied on both sides, her hair stained with the glossy mixture she smeared upon it that smelled so much like the strawberry I loved. Strawberry was extremely scarce, so it often disturbed me as to why one would rub such expensive condiment on the hair, only to have it washed away, wasted like it meant nothing to them. It disturbed me so much that on one cool evening, I snuck into her room to that small shelf where she usually kept all her accessories. I picked the object of my concern and I raised it up. It looked so beautiful in the moonlight that illuminated the room. I brought it from its elevated height of worship down to my nose, and at once, the familiar scent of my craving rushed straight up my nose to my brain, taking along a pin with him, bursting all my bubbles of reason and caution. Soon it was in my mouth and I began sucking and pressing, trying to get the shiny substance in it out into my mouth. A successful attempt it was, satisfaction clouded my eyes and I soon emptied its contents. I expected more satisfaction at the savoury taste that I had been longing for, expected to feel the warmth of sweetness in my mouth, but all that came was nothing, only a tingling and piercing taste of nothing. I immediately began a quest to get the substance out of my mouth. The more frantic my efforts, the more it dominated my mouth. I began spewing thick globs of spit, scrubbing my tongue with every piece of cloth I could view in my closed eye frenzy. My tongue felt like it was on fire, I tried to perform my mouth cleansing operation, in as much quiet as possible, but my mouth didn't agree. It being fed up of the suffering it was going through decided to protest. It began with some low tuned ahh's in rhythm with each scrub I gave my tongue, and when it felt like the pain wasn't going to end, let out a yell. My whole body soon followed suit; abandoning operation quiet that we all agreed on. I fell on the floor, rolling and yelling till my mum came running up the stairs. Her heavy footsteps initially would have been a source of panic to me, but now it was the footsteps of salvation. When she entered and saw me on the floor, she quickly scanned through the room to get what was going on, and in search of any threat that might have been the source of my predicament. She saw the opened tube of her strawberry hair relaxer lying empty on the floor, and I still engrossed in my service of mouth cleansing, my yells reduced to short whimpers. Instantly, her demeanour of worry and concern, changed to a terrifying one. She pulled me up from the floor with my ear, promptly picked me up and slung me across her shoulder, and began smacking my backside as we journeyed down the stairs, reigniting the flames of my yells. She set me down roughly on our sitting room couch and left me in my plight. I began thinking about what just happened. I knew what strawberry tasted like. Grandma always brought me some when she came visiting, and I knew it certainly didn't taste like what I consumed up there. She came back moments later with a strong-smelling mixture she had in a cup. It was supposed to help remove the tingling sensation as she said. I accepted the cup wholesome, forgetting my disdain for anything bitter, as I would have accepted anything that would douse the flames in my mouth. I began drinking in full gulps, not bothering about the taste, just let the flames die. At my young age of eight, I didn't know much about death, but had heard enough of it to know it wasn't a good thing. Papa I was told died because he ate something he wasn't supposed to eat. Mother never remained the same after that, I never saw her smile and she was always never there, except in the evening. Mum just ordered me to go to bed, with a note that we would be visiting the doctor tomorrow morning. Her reaction wiped out my earlier fear of death, but not my pangs of hunger. I hadn't had dinner because she didn't give me any. She probably forgot, and I was too scared to ask. As I lay on my bed that night, clutching my belly and stifling groans. I journeyed back into my world of thoughts, the thoughts of the strawberry. I wondered on and came to a conclusion. Maybe they created a new strawberry, one with a different taste, because they sure smellled the same. As I lay there; begging sleep to come take me in his warm embrace, to save me from the war going on in my belly, I reasoned that whoever created the new strawberry, must be a very wicked fellow, with a terrible taste. I imagined him to be a man and I started painting his grotesque features, creating them in my mind even as sleep listened to my appeal, and put out my lights.

That tree there, In splendid loneliness amidst dead Leaves and clumps of moss. That Young tree, situated where The stream once flowed, but is said To have dried up, leaving you at loss. Thou withered tree. You will be green again. Once again you will be lush. Your young tendrils will again unfurl free. You will reproduce and gain All you lost these past times in a rush. When the tide does flow, And the waters pass your way. They will nourish your roots once more and again. And when the ebb is low, They would have their stay. Making you evergreen, once more and again.