Photograph courtesy of
“Poverty is the worst form of violence.”
Out of the old
sepia-tinted tableau
frozen in my mind,
smoky and blurred,
the bubbly boy
leaps into life amid
tons of skinny children
swarming out of mudhouses
and running behind our blue car
giggling and shouting
in specks of dust!
He hardly knew then
that he was a child
created without a destiny!
.
Unfolding of years
made him struggle hard:
Too little food,
Long hours of work!
Poverty like a woodpecker
hammered into the
tender tree of his body:
Disadvantaged and
out-of-school the boy
suffered timeless traumas!
.
Sick and sorrowful
he was a drawning self–
Arms flailing!
Water splashing!
Many times he spoke
with God and prayed desperately,
but his prayers went unanswered!
.
Then with ascending hands
he looked at the skies–
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The Wombwell Rainbow 