It was a sombre, blustering and tempestuous night. The rain fell in torrents except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent and berserk gust of wind which swept up in the streets of London.
The turbulent wind was chasing some wet leaves in diagonals. The leaves circled precipitated. The light of the street lamps were stuttering, irregularly and not too far from that fifth lamp, inside a very étroite street you could see me, if you wanted to. Child of starvation, son of the streets. My feet are bare so is my back.
I watch shadows of people on the irregular walls in front of me. Nobody seems to notice me. As I try to subside into another world, the thunderous sound of my stomach wakes me up. I tremble each time it happens. Stomachs are often the enemy of me and my kin. It makes us vulnerable and suave troubadour towards people for a rain of brown coins. That is what we do: beg.
Even the rests of your last meal would be considered as a blessing. For food I haven’t seen any in days. I smell it everyday; without reaching it. People passes by with hands full of bags with still warm vapour escaping from them. We see it, and envy it with our dry tongue sticking out like a dog in front for a juicy bone. Is it that hard to imagine such penury and absence of wealth?
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I have been around for only a decade though I feel like ten of them already passed. I am weakened, and I have absolutely no joy of living. I wake up everyday with a bitter taste in my mouth and curse myself for still breathing. What desolation!
Our famine hasn’t reached you, yet…
By Rabia Tunaboylu
Email: rabichko-at-hotmail.com