The Life I have Lived

I clocked 44 on the sixth day of July according to the Gregorian calendar. I am not a big fan of birthdays nor do I give too much attention to the number I am on the life ladder. However, sometimes, I do look up checking the grip I have on this ladder.

For me, life has been a mixture of experiences. Poverty had been a staple, but the joy and laughter of my childhood gave no rise to sadness.

The constant worries that come with poverty made me decide as a young girl never to be poor. I wanted something different from what I grew up in. I had a plan to work to perfect my life no matter what it took.

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The Colour Of Me

“Nan, look! He is black”, the little boy called the attention of his grandmother pointing to my son. My ears played a little trick on me, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my son or something else.

There were three of them: a young lady, a boy and an older lady. The boy must be between the age of seven and eight. Presumably, the younger lady was closer to being the boy’s mum and the older lady the grandmother.

I wasn’t sure if the ladies heard the boy the first time he pointed to my son describing the colour of his skin and clearly, the boy wasn’t sure if his mum or grandmother heard him.

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The Stories I heard

I don’t recall reading bedtimes stories when growing up, but, I recall interesting stories that were told.

I remember the conversations I heard as a little girl to the folktales shared by families, neighbours and friends. Part of me contains songs, poetries and the vivid images of scary monsters painted to scare.

Imaginary plays, make-believes and visits to relatives occupied most of the summer holidays. With foods and songs, long lost friends who came around to visit each having a story to tell.

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