Day 17 – Hope 

It was another sunny day, Damola made his way to the backyard of the crippled house he lived in with his mum. The house was as though it was built to be incomplete. The roofings were laced with rusted metals to serve as a pan when in actuality, rain droplets would always sieve its way inside the house. The painting of the house also portrayed a lackluster of ingenuity.

Damola hawked oranges to support his mum. His mum traded in a large stock at the market. It didn’t feel enough for her to stay at one spot to commercialize her goods.

Damola got a fair share of an educational life. He attended a community school that was mixed with both the vulnerable and the comfortable. Damola didn’t roll with friends, cliques, or any peer group. He knew he had to rewrite his story. It had to be written in a special way.

“A pack of candles please.”

“This is the second pack this month. Guess you’re exams are closer than before.” The man who sold candles knew Damola too well.

“Yeah… I’ve got to buckle up.” Damola whimpered

“Well, make sure you get some sleep.”

Damola never shared his use of candles, he was coerced to express himself when the man who sold candles was always trying to interrogate him.

He arranged his candles in the middle of the night to do what the African mother urged her child to do. He arranged his candles to maybe send wishes to the heavens through every dim incandescent. He strayed himself with insects and fireflies and shared part of their story. He didn’t know his addiction he had with the night; perhaps his invigoration sparked up by rhetorics of those who addressed the night as a helm of the ambitious saw him romance the candle lights. The vibe of books, strategies, and pondering on life all came when he lit up his candle in the middle of the night. Something felt warm part from the flares of the candle lights.


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