Makoko Fishing

When I wore half-pants, my dawns always woke me up to change into gray shorts of my beloved school. My hear always longed to trek the kilometre to the school bus stop, chatting way with friends as my black Bata Schoolboy remained busy kicking away all the stones and pebbles along the road. We were the fortunate ones.

For those not so fortunate, Makoko brought them to home. Not to let them walk down the road to school; but to make them throw fishing nets in the filthy Atlantic backwaters. Not to let them hold a pencil between their nimble fingers, but to make them deft at untangling a struggling fish from the cruel nets. Every sinew of their young ebony muscles work overtime to fend for their hungry souls. Its also called child labour. In the cruel world of poverty, it brings dignity.

The years add up the days to turn the young boys into a man of his own. The legs outgrow the shorts into a pair of trousers. But the fishing net remains a part of his existence. It just grows bigger with the years.