Chapter 4: The cold Welcome!

Introduction:

The city was nothing like I had imagined. I thought I'd find a fresh start, a glimmer of hope, perhaps even redemption. Instead, what awaited me was a brutal awakening—a confrontation with a world that neither forgives nor forgets. From the moment I arrived, the reality of my situation began to unravel, layer by painful layer.

1. Arrival: A Father's Disappointment

My father stood at the car park, his arms crossed, his eyes searching me like a stranger. He hadn't seen me in a while, yet there was no joy in our reunion, no warmth. Without a word, he gestured for me to follow him.

The first thing he did was sit me down at a dingy restaurant near the bus station. The air inside was thick with the smell of fried food and sweat, and I barely had time to take a sip of water before the interrogation began.

"Are you normal? Is your brain even working? What were you thinking when you destroyed your own life? Do you understand what you've done?" His words were sharp and relentless, each one striking me like a whip.

I sat there, frozen. What could I say? Deep down, I knew he was right. My dreams, my future, my sense of self—all of it had gone up in smoke. I had no answers, only the crushing weight of regret.

After that he led me through the narrow, dusty streets to his home. It was a single room in an old, crumbling house, barely large enough for a single bed and a small table. The air was thick with the scent of age and neglect.

That night, as I lay beside him on his small, worn-out bed, he broke the silence.

At dawn, my father woke me up with a sense of urgency. His voice was firm, devoid of sympathy.

"You cannot stay here. It's not safe. If anyone recognizes you, we're both in trouble. And don't think you'll live off me like a child. From today, you're on your own."

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. His words weren't cruel, but they carried the unmistakable weight of rejection. Even in this small, cramped space, I was an intrusion.

2. The Tour of Hardship

Early in the morning, my father decided to show me the city—not the bright, bustling side of it, but the underbelly where survival was a daily battle.

We walked through narrow streets crowded with hawkers yelling over each other to sell their goods. We passed laborers drenched in sweat, bending over heaps of scrap metal in workshops. And then there were the others—men in suits, polished shoes gleaming, but their eyes betrayed the truth. My father leaned in and whispered, "Don't be fooled. Many of them sleep under bridges. In the morning, they clean up and put on their masks. This is life here."

He took me to meet a service provider agent selling airtime and mobile money services. My father asked him how much he earned. The man smiled wryly and said, "Not much. I make about 2,000 a day, but after eating and other expenses, there's hardly anything left."

My father turned to me with a grim expression. "

My father turned to me, his gaze piercing. "You see? This is the reality of life here. Everyone is struggling. If you don't work hard, you won't survive. you're even lucky you had me to bring you here. Most people come to the city by themselves and with nothing. Stop expecting life to be easy."

His words stung, but I nodded, knowing he was trying to prepare me for what lay ahead.

3. A Cold Welcome

Later that day, we headed to my father's friend's house. It was a stark contrast to the cramped room my father lived in. The house was large, with multiple rooms, but it was empty and lifeless. My father explained that his friend was a caretaker, entrusted to look after the property while its owners were away.

My father pleaded with him to let me stay.

"He won't ask you for food or anything. He just needs a place to sleep. Please, help him out."

Reluctantly, his friend agreed, but the tone of the conversation made it clear that I wasn't welcome.

That night I slept on the floor and I couldn't sleep a wink, but the chill of the floor wasn't what kept me awake. My mind was consumed by thoughts of the life I had left behind—the comfort of home, the friends I'd never see again, the future I'd envisioned but would never have. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at the ceiling, wondering how I had ended up here.

4. The Harsh Beginning

The next morning, my father arrived with a bundle of items that would dictate my new life: a charcoal stove, two small metallic pots, a bucket, a kilogram of peanuts and a crate of eggs.

"This is your life now," he said. "Boil these eggs, cook the peanuts, and sell them on the streets. Don't expect me to support you more and don't call me if it doesn't work. You're responsible for yourself now."

His words were harsh, but I understood their necessity. I was an adult now, and this was the harsh reality of adulthood.

I stared at the items in disbelief. This wasn't just a business—this was my survival kit, my lifeline. The thought of hawking on the streets, begging strangers to buy from me, filled me with shame. But I had no choice.

5. The Struggles of Street Hawking

My first day as a street hawker was humiliating. Carrying the bucket on my head, I walked through the crowded streets, calling out to potential customers. I sold my first egg to a young girl carrying a jerrycan of water. She gave me 100, and for a brief moment, I felt a flicker of hope. But later, a man bought an egg, cracked it open, and discovered it was undercooked.

"What kind of egg is this? Are you trying to poison people?" he yelled. I apologized profusely and offered him another, but it too was raw. Furious, he threw the egg at me and told me to leave.

Humiliated, I returned to my "brother's" house, cooked the eggs properly, and went back out. By the end of the day, I hadn't sold everything, and my earnings barely covered the cost of restocking.

6. An Unexpected Opportunity

As the days passed, the exhaustion and frustration grew. I walked miles without making a sale. The weight of the bucket on my head felt like a punishment. I started to envy the thieves who snatched wallets and phones in the chaos of the city. At least they had an escape, however fleeting.

But I couldn't do it. The fear of being caught, of making my situation even worse, kept me in check.

On fateful day, as I rested with other hawkers, a man approached and asked, "Who here knows how to make pancakes?"

The other hawkers shook their heads, but I, desperate for a way out, lied. "I do."

He looked at me skeptically. "Are you sure? I'm not running a charity. If you can't do the work, don't waste my time."

I nodded, hiding my fear. "I can do it."

He offered me a job, and I followed him, leaving my unsold eggs and peanuts behind.

7. A New Chapter, A New Warning

When we arrived at his home, I was shocked. I had expected a proper workshop, but it was a cramped single room. The "workplace" was a makeshift area behind the house, with a large charcoal stove and a few utensils. he lived with his nephew who worked in a canteen.

That night, when his nephew arrived home, he saw me sleeping and he woke me up and asked me "what brought you here young boy?" I told him I had come for a job and he whispered to me, "Listen, leave while you can. This man isn't who he seems. If you stay, you'll regret it."

His warning sent a chill down my spine. What kind of man had I trusted? Was this life truly better than the one I had left behind? but what choice did I have? This was the first chance I'd had to prove myself, to claw my way out of the pit I'd fallen into. I couldn't afford to walk away, not yet. 

As I lay awake, the cold floor beneath me felt like a premonition—hard, unyielding, and devoid of comfort. I had escaped one nightmare only to step into another. But I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.

The faint glow of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wall, and with it came a sliver of resolve. Whatever lay ahead—be it pancakes, betrayal, or something worse—I would face it.

But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that the real battle hadn't even begun.