I remember those days vividly, the smell of smoke from our small kitchen, the sound of rain dripping through the cracks in the grass-thatched roof, and the laughter of my siblings echoing through the compound. Our home was humble, perhaps even pitiable to outsiders, but it was ours. Every corner held a memory, every crack in the walls told a story. We didn’t have much—no electricity, no running water, and sometimes not enough food—but we had each other. Life was hard, yes, but it was honest and full of lessons that only poverty and perseverance can teach.
Growing up in that house, I watched my parents struggle endlessly to make ends meet. My father worked odd jobs, while my mother sold small amounts of produce at the local market. Despite their exhaustion, they always found time to laugh with us, to tell us stories, to remind us that one day our struggles would be worth something. Even as children, we understood the weight of their sacrifices. We shared responsibilities, fetched water from the river, gathered firewood, and helped tend to the small plot of land behind our house. Life was simple, harsh, and relentless, but it was also full of resilience and hope.…CONTINUE READING
