He’s Little Shn.
Without him, my drinking water tastes different. In fact, everything tastes different now.
Yes, he’s no longer with us.
Thanks to his oh-so-lazy-bones and some people’s red-eyes, they send him to suicidal site of late lunch and zero friday-prayers.
He’s my Darling Smt.
A friend who won’t leave me talking to the tree and lumpy mud alone.
Without him, blood in my veins won’t sing, head on my neck won’t dance and drum in my heart won’t beat.
I’ll be dead if he’s not here with me.
He’s Papa Slh.
To me, his name, suits the overall impression of a filial fisherman.
To feed all his three girls (and me) and his smiley wife, so five in total. He’d left home early in the morning and return late in sweat, with legs and hands full of red mosquito bites
In his hands, a plastic of fresh-fish for the family to eat.
He’s Brother Jhd. He’s there for everyone.
No matter where or when, dark and quiet the street is, for friendship’s sake and sometime for an extra liquidcash, he would kindly assist u, supply u and entertain u with his never-fail-to-make-me-smile snore.
He’s Uncle Dia.
Each time I watched him talk, I see short and long bitter swimming in his hazy eyes.
Bitter with choice but was asked to sleep and left to rot.
What he need is a wife to baby him around. Any takers?