From the village where I farmed hours under the sun, to make ends meet, to the city, where I drove a taxi at day, and served as a guard at night, my little boy always interrupted my thoughts with his mother’s. “Papa, stop thinking. Mama say everything will be fine, that you work hard.” Then, I will smile, and draw him into an embrace.
Yesterday, he came again, differently. “Papa, my friend’s father work hard like you, but their landlord has pursued them. Can you give them one room?” I gazed at him. As I said yes, tears rolled down.
Yesterday, he came again, differently. “Papa, my friend’s father work hard like you, but their landlord has pursued them. Can you give them one room?” I gazed at him. As I said yes, tears rolled down.
