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Feb 2019
A bright dot within the grey background of low slung houses

She kicks up no gravel as she walks

The silence of a graveyard but with homes

White cars in front like grave stones



Thoughts are the wind on desert land,

Empty and idle versus gaunt and bare

Rubbing against each other; friction, no heat.



Outside this desolation footsteps echo,

Their rhythm reminding her of the ghetto,

The fear turns you watchful as the gecko,

Breath rushes out, see the little heart beat

Dust from the gravel clogs her nose.



She feels the shadow rushing,

It clamps from the back (there was no shushing),

Her hand in a grip nearly crushing,

Stale breath in her ear, a chokehold on her neck as they were struggling

A sting in her eyes she wasn't disposed to crying,

But as she felt the shadow grab hold she stopped pushing,

Knew he had won as sure as the gravel on which she was standing,



False entitlement we shall not allow,

So he took the bill upon which she'd been avowed,

Mother preferred she'd vanished along with that legal tender,

Yes, you can never trust these nine-year-old suspect spenders.
childhood memories, urbantheft, suburblife
habiba
Written by
habiba  26/F/Nairobi, KE
(26/F/Nairobi, KE)   
127
 
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