My Shameful Little Steal
“Sheri!!!”, I stopped as I heard my aunt screamed my name. Something told me she had seen the little bag of rice and a bottle of oil I kept in the bag covered up in rumbles behind the door. I ran down the flight of stairs with gripping fear ready to be dragged through the
In my aunt’s hands was the bag containing the food I intended to take with me as I came to the end of my weekend stay. It was on a Sunday, my returning-home day. The ground sank under my feet while my aunt expected some explanation on her finds.
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I lived in one of the slums of Lagos mainland. My house could be classified as what the local called “Face me, I face you” style of building, however, mine was a bit different from the norm. At the edge of the corridor was the gutter, part of which was covered with wooden planks and the rest left open. The sight was not pretty, but, we got used to it.
Ours were plights of rooms, lined up unevenly. Inbetween the rolls of rooms was an unsteady path which spread across the entire length of our corridor. Looking up, you could see the sky which I felt was a great advantage. The path only divided the rooms and their chronological arrangement. 
I peeped out of the window and watched as the rain dropped. Each drop competing for a place to land. The ground was wet with glittering sparks reflecting the content of its surrounding.