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.
