I have been cursed for as long as I remember. I think I may have been born this way because I can’t recall any occurrence during my childhood that tampered with my “factory setting”. This is Huey’s Chronicles.
I picture myself as a wolf in a world filled with dogs yet for some reason, I too want to bark. It doesn’t make any sense; dogs are thought of as the domesticated, less deadly offspring of wolves, so why do I want to be one of them so bad, why do I need their respect, their approval, their love?
Questions like these and more are things I ponder on when I’m alone, which is most of the time actually. I think heaven made a mistake in the manufacturing process when it was my turn.
It makes perfect sense when you think about it; the reason I’m different is that “something” is missing or defective. Hundred percent the manufacturer’s fault has nothing to do with me at all.
My name is David Jones and for as long as I can remember I’ve felt different from everyone around me; picture a shark in the desert. I’ve never really felt at home anywhere and so I question everything.
It’s not even voluntary at this point anymore, tell me the earth is flat and I’ll disagree, tell me it’s round and I’ll also disagree. I’m in search of something I can’t name; like the words to express what I want haven’t been invented yet.
Read Also: 7 Signs you need to stop That Relationship
I’ve been told that only dishonest people find it hard to trust but I think I might be an exception to that rule. I take everything told me with a grain of salt having learned the hard way that ignorance isn’t what we should fear but the arrogance that misinformation brings.
There is nothing on this earth more dangerous than a misinformed man. I’ve decided to chronicle my ramblings, my final quest in my attempt to understand the working of my mind.
I have vague memories of my childhood, the one-room apartment I shared with my parents and siblings, my neighbor’s daughter that everyone agreed was my wife, the “private” school we attended close to home; some memories are clearer than others.
Back then we were dirt poor but for some reason, my parents refused to accept that fact. I remember vividly being warned about hanging out with “street kids” or “
I spent hours trying to think of the differences between them and us, we were both poor, we both lived in the crappy part of town.
Even though I and my siblings went to a “private” school, our school was easily the cheapest private school in the area which meant that most of the students were also “street kids”.
Read Also: Is social media making more people insecure?
So why exactly couldn’t I hang out with them after school? It made no sense to the
I understood that staying away from them would make my parents happier so I did.
My parents were determined to raise well mannered and responsible children right in the heart of the ghetto so I did whatever I had to make their job easier.
My elder sister Claudia, unfortunately, didn’t share the same principles. Claudia had only 1 rule in her life, no rules.
She did what she wanted when she wanted and where she wanted to do it.
This, of course, meant that she spent the major part of her childhood serving punishment or being beaten because our parents literally lived by the Bible verse “spare the rod and spoil the child” but it’s either this was okay with Claudia or she was incapable of stopping herself from misbehaving.
My mother hardly beat us growing up and when she did, there was no hate in her eyes. She’d beat you now and call you 10 minutes later to come and eat.
If you were still crying she’d use her wrapper to wipe your tears and hold you to her chest while consoling you and educating you about the errors of your deeds.
She always apologized after beating us; every single time. Mother genuinely hated to see any of her children in pain.
Our father, on the other hand, was something else. I’m not even ready to go into that right now but I’d rob a bank today if someone offered to take away some of my memories in exchange for money.
Now that I think about it, our poverty wasn’t the fault of my parents at all. I mean, it’s their fault for being broke and having children but it isn’t really their fault they were broke.
Let me explain. My mother grew up in a very dysfunctional family, she had 23 siblings, 2 stepmothers,
He was hardly ever at home but once in a while he’d drop by, stay for a while, get one of his wives pregnant and leave again.
Since each of his wives was majorly concerned with feeding herself and her children education wasn’t really a priority in the household.
Children were expected to help with housework and in the farm, whatever they chose to do with the rest of their time was entirely up to them and as a result, most of my mother’s siblings are uneducated.
Mother told us tales of how she and few of her siblings worked extra hours on a small plot of land given to them from their mothers share to be able to afford just the bare necessities for school.
She trained herself through primary, secondary school and university where she met the man that would become my father.
Father’s tale is a tale of riches to rags. His father was a very successful businessman in Port Harcourt till he let his greed cloud his judgment. My grandfather was convinced to donate all that he had (he even borrowed too) to invest in a very “sure” business.
The business required no input from him apart from his capital and it was certain to quadruple his investment overnight so without taking the necessary precautions Grandpa handed everything over to the strange man that he didn’t really know but called “friend. “.
His friend vanished with the money as soon as he collected it leaving grandpa to face the people the money was borrowed from. Grandpa had a stroke a week later; two weeks later he started selling off his properties and that officially marked the beginning of their descent into poverty.
Continues on Poverty Must Die, Huey’s Chronicles – Episode 2
Written by Leon Chuks