The gentle breeze whispers.
I hear a footstep,
My heart beating with anticipation,
I turn but alas there is no one there.
I am a child of the streets,
I am all alone.
Morning is here,
I see people walking here and there,
Too busy to notice me.
All I need is a shilling or two to survive.
Everywhere I see families together.
Why, oh why wasn’t I given a chance,
To be loved and care for?
In the afternoon,
I will scrounge for leftovers in the dustbin.
If I get a few shillings from begging,
The kiosk will sell me some stale food
Or I might be lucky to get some food,
That is thrown away in the dustbins.
I dream of eating fried chicken
But where can I get such food,
Unless I steal and I may end in prison
Then I would never be free again.
Night has come again.
My stomach grumbles.
I lie down on old tattered jacket,
That someone threw away.
I shiver from the cold of the night,
Whispering a prayer to the heavens,
Hoping, only hoping,
That tomorrow, sweet tomorrow,
I will meet someone who cares,
And I will never be alone again.
The gentle breeze whispers,
I hear a footstep,
My heart beating with anticipation
I turn and alas there is no one there.
I am a child of the streets.
I am alone.
PS. I wrote this poem when I was in form one in 1993 and it was published in the first issue of the Young Nation, of the Sunday Nation. Tumetoka mbali. I have always had people (my family) who encouraged me to write. That’s why I want to mentor young kids to achieve their writing potential, because some times they may not have anybody to encourage them to write.
