I was awakened by a ruckus outside only to discover that it was just my brother and the other kids in the compound excitingly giving chase to the protesting cock Mama bought for Christmas. My over imaginative mind pictured them in their drooping pants of different textures, shuffling and bustling around in different directions as the cock displayed the best evasive techniques known in Chicken-ville in its desperate attempt to avoid imminent capture and that obscure mental image brought a little tingle of envy in my heart and a smile to my face as I slowly got up and carefully found my way to the only window in our one room “face me, I face you” apartment.
This Christmas was special because of our new clothes and the chicken. I know my listed reasons are not a big deal for some kids, but for us out here in my hood it was, because it gives us bragging rights amongst the other kids in the hood during our usual boastful tirades, secondly the Christmas clothes were the first new ones we have gotten in years and finally, the chicken which was a big leap from the rejected ‘Ori Eja’ we always gathered from our customers at the market was the first I have heard them buy in my short but otherwise painful life.
Our meagre existence in the slum of Ijora-Badia in Lagos was an almost unbearable one until Papa died. The man that birthed me was vile and had long lost the right to be called Papa because he never factored in the scheme of things and calling him that felt alien to me because he never accorded me the honor of being acknowledged as a human talk less of as his son. Back then we barely could live from hand to mouth with my brother hawking groundnut on the streets, Papa a pathological drunk by profession invariable making sure he got himself royally messed up on cheap alcohol popularly known as ‘Shekpe’ at the Shekpe mansion two streets away, while I and Mama sold fish at Ijora market. I still can never forget the first time I accompanied Mama to the market, it was hell for me because the shouting in the market was too loud for my sensitive ears to handle and worse, the putrid stench of rotten fish that assailed my even more sensitive olfactory lobe was too much for my brain to process that I zoned out most times until my body system got used to sensory damages wrought by the market environment.
My brother on the other hand was having fun because of the freedom accorded to him while hawking around the streets by playing pranks, getting into street fights and playing football, but his fun was always short-lived because of the feeling of wariness and dread that overcomes him as the time to go home drew nearer. His fears weren’t misplaced; infact he had every reason to be terrified because he and Mama were always at the receiving end of Papa’s drinking bouts. I was spared from his beatings because like I said earlier, he refused to acknowledge my existence but they on the other hand were fair game. So it became a norm in our household that most nights I would be crouched in the corner crying as blows were meted on Mama by Papa for refusing to hand over her day sales and on my brother for coming to her defence. At the end of it all Papa either goes out to drink again with the money he collects or pass out on the bed while my mother gathers us all together at the corner of the room crying and praying to God to save us, and it all went on till the day her prayers were answered.
It is said that angels protect babies and drunkards from harms way, but on this particular night I think one angel said he has had enough with this one rumbustious and violent drunk and decided to allow the natural cause of things take place.
On this day Papa came back raving drunk as usual, began his beating which we all had cowardly accepted as our lot and then staggered out again to continue his debauchery with Mama’s sales for the day. He didn’t come back home that night and was found dead by the road side in the morning. Apparently his body had shutdown because of excess alcohol and thereby choked to death on his vomit. It was a turning point in our lives and Mama made a point of it by using one of the fishes she sells to prepare a meal that day even when the scriptures spoke against celebrating death, but would God judge us unjustly because of our merriment?
Anyway that was two months in the past, we are now at the present which is Christmas and looking forward to the future which we would tackle together as a family. For once I won’t complain when Mama comes to take me to bath because of my eagerness to try on my new clothes, maybe next time Mama might buy us a pair of shoe each, then I wouldn’t have to walk barefooted any longer. Like I said earlier, this Christmas was special but what would have made it perfect would have been for me to see. I was born sightless and seeing would have meant the world to me because I want to be able to play with the other kids and connect colors with my environment and feelings. Mama tells me that God does everything for a reason and that sometimes feel she would have been better off without eyes too because the world was a very bitter and painful place to be in. But I don’t care for I really wish I could see even if all I see is pain and suffering.
My Dark School Of Thoughts 
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