Tales I Get To Hear: Urban Poverty, Inner City Crime: The Vicious Cycle.

The two teens lay on the hard concrete, lifeless, shot through the back at close range. The crowds milling around, some excited, some shocked, others just there, not sure what to make of what they had witnessed. Two lives albeit young ones had been snuffed out by the police. Accused of a host of crimes in the neighborhood, the 'worst' being the gunning down of a police officer. Once they crossed that red line, they became goners. The official Walking Dead. If they had just kept to their usual backstreet and dark alley ways and blood sport mischief they perhaps would have survived longer. Just perhaps.

The previous week as I went about my work in one of our facilities in the vicinity of the incident I had met a lady who had missed her appointment since early December last year. I had asked her, "How come you missed your appointment?"
"It's a long story daktari!", she had solemnly responded.
"Huh, long story, what long story is this now?" I had just asked in a matter-of-fact manner.
"I had taken my son to my mother's place"
"But what about him and what about it?" I had inquired.
"My son was shot by the police, so I was advised to take him somewhere where he could be safe. I could not easily find the money for transport back. That is why I have delayed.
"The first time they shot him they only hit him on the hand but he was rescued by a Good Samaritan who hid him in his house. But the other boy was not lucky, he was killed.
"Now tell me something, what had your son done?" I had asked her with a rising curiosity.
"My son is very innocent and obedient but the police claim he is bad. So they traced him again and swore this time he was not going to survive. In fact it was just the intervention of my neighbors and the area elder who know him that the police released him otherwise he was being taken to be finished.
"So what exactly does he do? Is he school going?"
"No he completed school last year. He has just been doing odd construction jobs here and there ever since. He had been helping me a great deal with the other children.
"How many children do you have?" I delved deeper.
"Daktari I have ten children." She had frankly replied. I had just stared at her not able to determine whether she was stretching this. In my mind I was trying to picture the family of ten plus in their modest shanty. However seeing my disbelief she had gone on to clarify. That two were actually grandchildren and that she was taking care of two other foster children. This did not even make it any better. Two of her children were not mentally stable and required constant watch.
"And what is it you do for a living?"
"I used to prepare and sell bhajia but now I have stopped, it has been hard to raise any money to buy the necessary items. So now I just go to the food market to scavenge for any discarded foodstuffs so I can fix something for my children. Everyday.
"Husband?"
"He died many years back."
"Do you think your life is better off here or in your rural home?" I had pointedly asked her.
"Daktari we don't have any home to go to. My husband just had a small piece of land which he had sold off a long time ago, we even had to negotiate with the buyer to grant us just a portion for his burial site.
I caught myself in the middle of musing, "damn, what a concoction of problems". Aloud I had said, "Anyway you have to realize that your health is of supreme importance. No need to emphasize that. The moment your health will start failing is the moment your problems will multiply.
"I realize that daktari, it won't happen again I promise.
You do not have to promise anything, already there is a problem as you have been told before. You just need to realize that you have a little chance of making amends.
"That I will take seriously doctor.




That was how we had ended that little conversation; with her promise to be more keen on her treatment...It was the third time in a few short years that she had been going off medicines for months at a time...

When I was a seventeen year old lad I was still very much within the thrashing range of my old man's cane! This however did not restrain me from engaging in the usual boyhood hanky panky only that it remained discrete. For instance me and my friend Caleb were doing each other favors that you can only imagine and covering for each other. Our afternoons could be spent listening to all of Bob Marley songs. Caleb was of a musical orientation but he could not get around to loving the genius that was Tuff Gong. But we listened to him anyway. Or our afternoons could be spent at some church or school where he would be training the choir. I learnt very early on from him how hard the world of labor relations was; I candidly remember him lamenting how church work had been turned to school work and school work into charity, meaning that the churches which he had offered to train for free for lack of stable means were indeed appreciating him by way of a little allowance whereas the schools which had agreed terms with him took him round in circles concerning his choir training dues...
Some days however we could spent in very vain pursuits away from our homes! I was the man of letters from an early age and was the go-to man if you wanted a penned message home. Caleb was the more practical man who got us through tight wires with his brusque, fast talk. On hindsight I realize how ridiculous we really were, getting all those passes. But all this was the usual coming-of-age experiences. Nothing too alarming. One day however I think I was getting too bold and convinced myself that I could get away with shit and that was the day that I got a stark reminder that I was not really out of the reaches of the old man's wrath..
What happened was that me and a younger uncle of mine went off to an overnight vigil of our friend's departed mother far off from home. Nothing wrong with this only that we did not have the requisite stamps of approval before hand. We just decided and off we went. Now considering what debauchery and licentiousness that actually took place during that night I believe there was no way any right thinking and responsible parent could have okayed such an outing...it could rank very high on the scale of irresponsibility!
When we came back the following day we found a reception party awaiting us! That was the first time I intensely hated parental authority...but I saw the error of my ways and with submission accepted what befell me...

The mood in the consultation room was icy. The mother to the seventeen year old boy who sat before us was just distant and obviously distraught. She had brought the boy to the facility after he had hurt his hand in unclear circumstances two days earlier. His official story was that the sharp edge of a door had cut him. Of course this was not in dispute but where this had happened and the actual events was where the diversion occurred. The suspicion was that it had been during a break-in. No way to verify this.




He was only seventeen, had dropped out of school and under the overwhelming influence of bad friends had been led into the quicksand that is drugs, alcohol and petty hood notoriety. His laid back mien and diminutive figure were very deceiving. But we had done a lot of work in talking him to reformation. Already he was showing signs of breaking off from the firm grip of his bad ways. You are here lazily thinking he was just a random neighborhood delinquent? Wrong. The mother held a very decent job in a reputable firm and his siblings were all comfortable in university. He lacked for nothing and absolutely nothing such as lack could have been the cause of his straying off the narrow, clean path. The mother had been too shaken by this turn of events. A black sheep right under her roof must have been such a stigmatizing reality that she had left the house and was now living with a relative...all over the neighborhood cases of youth falling under police bullets were reaching a crescendo and she feared for her son. A week before that she had told us that a boy she knew so well had been the victim and even though the particular circumstances remained contentious there was no denying the fact that at some point he had fallen off the right way. And so it happens that in the neighborhoods scores of young men many of them hardly out of their teens are living life on the edge. Neither schooling nor gainfully employed. Just hours on end to spend as they wish and what was it that was said about an idle mind?
With parents mostly mothers dead worried every waking day about their safety. Will it be the policeman's bullet or an irate public mob or will it be at the hands of a rival gang or a fallout?
But what happens if they happen to survive the minefield that is hood existence? No valuable skills to sell, a formidable mass of unemployable youth laying a claim to their stake in our midst...

The mothers in tears with stifled fears.
The unforgiving streets will eat their own..
And so merciless are the hood corners; an evil snare.
The fathers are all gone, so it's just the mothers in their tears.
The town that promised a little gold is now a hard shapeless rock.
Weeping for their sons.
The sons who grew out of hand..
The streets taught them twisted philosophies, chewed and spat them out.
Fattened them for the slaughter..
No vocations, no employment; just one hell of time on their hands.
Running the streets to run from lack, but how sadly it all ends..