Tuesday, 7 October 2014

(STORY) Tales of Amala !!!!!!


I live in the ruins, the darkest in these parts of our world. My name is Amala and it is this place that I call home. It is a slum worse off than a year’s untidy market with clogged drains and nothing such as potable water or electricity. We live in a place engulfed with so much filth such that the sweet smell that emanates from the nearby lagoon could cause a person to lose track of their way home.

My family is considered one of the best in these parts. It is a four –bedroom shelter with no classy furniture apart from the four traditionally carved stools for use in the kitchen and an old wobbling table which my parents acquired decades before I was born. The bare floors were always ready to accommodate our sleeping mats when night fell and the slits in the thatch roof always gave us a chance to mop the floors after the rains.

In this neighbourhood, most of the homes are blown down by the mere whistling of the winds. The houses are semi-mud with an accompaniment of stones and sea sand unlike the flashy and beautifully built brick houses with water proof paintings and glass doors that belonged to the aristocrats of society. Consistently, the thatch roofs are stacked for fear of being thrown down by the rains.

Morning in this place is like that of ants trouping in search of food in wait of the rainy season. Everyone is busy. The women take time to go about their chores while their husbands take to the routine of collecting used plastic material in return for some money to cover the daily expenditures of their families. Young men who are old enough  help to make additional income by fetching used and faulty appliances known as scrap and selling them out to interested buyers. Young girls carry loads to earn meager amounts.
However, children like me are always enthused about walking miles in search of water which we would bring back to our mothers to be used for domestic work. 

Mothers of Akinto were housewives who would do all the chores with little or no help from their adolescent children. They would then get the evening meal ready for their husbands in time for their return from a hard day’s work. We would fetch water from the algae-clogged taps or broken down pipes near the filthy looking drains. At other times when luck favoured us, a generous passer-by would help us pump water from a raggedy squeaking borehole.

The night workers were clustered at one part of the slum. They would come out at night in skimpy clothes with coloured substances applied on their faces, their lips glowing and sparkling as though they had been soaked in oil. After some time, they would sit in the classy vehicles that pulled up and be gone only to be seen at night the next day. They would sleep all day and would only come out at sundown to tell their friends about their escapades the previous evening. I had developed a liking to their slum luxury; their clothes and hairstyles which they always made sure were classy than the rags we wore. My parents, full of virtue and dignity, always complained about these girls but were not candid enough to tell us why they prevented us from going near them.

One day, after doing our chores we decided to stray a few miles away from home. As we walked through the narrow streets of Akinto, we shared our dreams as to the kind of adults we hoped to be. My best friend Tamil, a girl my age spoke of becoming an elegant lady and actress. She hoped to own so many assets and as she spoke passionately, I began to wander how all this was going to come true. My brother told us how he admired the world of banking. On one of our visits to the capital, he had closely observed the banking halls with particular attention and did not turn even to listen to me when I poked him. I had wondered how to work on my community and the health hazards that posed a threat to our lives; I earnestly prayed to end up as a health personnel and to affect the lives of many people especially those in my place.

Years on, I am standing in my very own Akinto, place of my birth. How time flies. I remember those years like yesterday. My parents could not afford to educate my brother and me. Had it not been for the benevolence of a philanthropist who visited our place; I wonder where I would have been. The schools he enrolled us in channeled a path for us to be near our dreams and his constant visits and words of encouragement helped us forge on.

After some years, Tamil and I took different paths. My brother Sakin continued in pursuit of his lifelong dream, a banker by hook or crook. All those skimpy dressing women now old and visiting my health centres on regular basis. The result of a life carelessly lived. I have learned my lessons well; my parents trained me to be dignified even in poverty and encouraged me to desist from making them friends.


Currently, I am a woman of substance; one of good ethics and character, mother of a girl and boy seated amongst the lot who are here to listen to Amala Kadimi ,native of Akinto. I now look back on those years as training grounds to experience hardship and to overcome it entirely.
 Today, Akinto is clean because of our hardwork. Tamil, Sakin and I as well as the people of Akinto have a clean neighbourhood, potable water and schools to offer. The children attend school and are well endowed to compete with any child anywhere. I’m so glad to be associated with Akinto; land of my birth.

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