Dear Almajiri
I have been confused,
By reasons you are given,
Meaning you are cherished,
But now you know who is driven,
By your needs,
And if you are needed.
Your hungry stomachs, don’t matter?
Your thirsty eyes, don’t matter?
Your wounded wound means nothing,
As long as you uphold a man’s nothing.
I have been confused, since I knew you,
When do you see the light, you are denied?
Who really benefits from thier toil?
For what wrong are they to pay?
When a child most be the bread, and bring the oil,
My heart breaks in your confusion,
I feel your pain,
But how does that matter?
When you grow up,
One day when you understand the human,
Who do you become?
Who have you learnt to be,
On the bare cold floor of the streets,
The tyrant or the bandit?
Will you become the teacher that inspired your sorrow?
Or that of your offspring,
Teaching them also the art of begging,
The painful arrogance of lack.
Surely God is not happy
But who do you become
When you grow?
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