The Corrugated Iron Hut

Imagine living in a corrugated iron hut, through summer; of blazing sun, preying on metal and your skin and  your breath. Through rain; collecting water dripping from the leaking roof, and standing on tiptoe when it floods in from underneath. My child now has pneumonia, coughing and wheezing. The last meal we had was two dinners ago when a neighbor shared a plate with us. Do I worry about our stomachs and the inhuman growling sounds they're making, or my other child's fever whose own growling has been muffled by coughs? And the transport fare; here on the outskirts, we have no clinic. The old bakery nearby, no longer dispose of little scraps it won't use, anymore. The last time we light the stove was a month ago. I've missed the smell of firewood burning, because it brings with it a promise of a taste on our tongues and heaviness in our stomachs that we'd go some more time before we'd feel that again. Their skin is a plaster against their frail frame. Hands long and dry like a garden fork. I'm too tired to my bones, of hunger and illness, of hard labour of years before to try to make it for the family. Of worrying over my children, worrying about who would die first of hunger, or malaria. I hope it won't be me, so I can take care of my children. A lot of times I resort to praying for their deaths, at least if they die, it would be better for them, they won't suffer anymore. Then I would stop myself, because as much as we suffer, through the pain and hunger, we smile and play. Through hollow sockets, their eyes twinkle and it gives me hope of a beautiful day to come; of a day my son would buy me bread and butter. And my daughter would bring me wrapper. It's through the tears, and whimpering of hunger when they could no longer wail, that I find peace. They relieve me of the distress and sadness, with promises of growing up. We go on days without any solid food, we had to sell the goat to buy some bread and cow milk, which in turn we got some cheese from. Yet, I find my children content, they'd always insist I take the first bite or sip. We'd drag this on end, until I finally give in. They'd smile and laugh and my tiny little world would blossom with happiness and love, I'd forget the meaning of hunger and poverty, of tattered clothes and battered mattress, and of our tiny corrugated iron hut.