Like thirty small boys playing monkey post on the path between the houses of a slum. Prebuscent small boys who know nothing about deodorants. Small boys who do not bother about the eyes on the rear of their shorts. They are Ronaldo and Messi and Pogba they know.Like a church hall where God's children pray away pain. Hungry from countless days of fasting, intestinal walls hugging, villus to villus. These people, they disregard the decimal places in their bank accounts. They know that they are Gates and Zuckerberg and Dangote.Like a million-man walk where people scream change. The scribblings of placards undecipherable because bread comes before marker pens on a poor man's scale of preference. These people, they know that their effort may yield no change, but in their minds, they are Ghandi and Mandela and Luther.Like those, like them, my mind is a crowded place. A place of many a feeling;a place of hope and miracles countless. A place that believes the sun will shine tomorrow. And it will, whether or not I wake up to it.
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From @emilo3