By Tinzwei HAVING a home is a choice of location for some. For others, it’s a lifetime struggle. Some have lived in a squatter camp...
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By Tinzwei
HAVING a
home is a choice of location for some. For others, it’s a lifetime struggle.
Some have lived in a squatter camp their entire lives.
We shall
call it The Dungeon Valley, because the residents have only a slim chance of
ever owning their own home. This is the most democratic community, for in its
midst are fugitives, but they are treated equally. Everyone deserves a second
life, especially in the valley.
Families invite themselves and only require
cheap materials to build a home.Whatever
they can afford is permissible. No identity, nationality, race code or boundary
is required. In contrast, across the river are the Haven Mansions. Their lives
are different, but these communities need each other dearly. The suburbs are
where they source their free electricity via street lights, while the camp
provides a work force and clientele for their shops.
And
in-between is a dump, where men compete with stray dogs for survival. Then
there is the derelict factory that employed many people before it shut down.
Many worked there before the big city swallowed them. Once, thousands gathered
beneath the big tree and whispered in hushed voices. Children were warned not
to interfere in their business.
This time,
things were serious. They were tired of being on the waiting list for houses
that never came. Many had been to banks, and each time, when they were asked
how they would repay the bond, they got stuck. “What is a bond?” many inquired.
“Today we
will march for our rights,” they all declared. Then the police came and
disrupted the meeting. Since then, nothing has changed. Their homes are still
single rooms, expertly partitioned with cheap cloth or cardboard. The divisions
consist of a kitchen for meals, if there is ever anything to cook. In it is a
puffing paraffin stove and a few tins converted into pots.
This is where the
children sleep. Each night they watch in shame as rats make babies on top of
the pots and even excrete there. What a bunch of ungrateful vermin. The bedroom
is for prayers and keeping valuables. It also serves as the entertainment room.
The last section is reserved for a mobile toilet. It gets too dark to venture
outside at night and then the bucket comes in handy. In the morning, the
children take turns to empty it into the nearby stream.
The
semi-attached homes are demarcated by thin sheets, awkwardly fixed together to
create that imaginative divide. What happens next door is never a secret. You
can overhear someone snoring in the next room as if he is just next to you. You
can chat with someone next door without leaving your home.
Each
morning, one lights the paraffin stove to warm the bathing water. The same pot
is used for washing and cooking a small meal. The face is the most recognised
part, so it takes priority. After that, a small portion of thick porridge with
warm water and a pinch of salt for taste, and probably some sugar, if they can
afford it.
Nothing for
lunch. The day has commenced. Saturday is soccer day. Worn-out shoes demarcate
the playing field. The game, which has reached a climax, is interrupted when a
pack of stray dogs trails a bitch on heat. Everyone abandons the match and
tracks the action to its finale. They are not disappointed.
One day,
someone did the unforgivable, leaving a paraffin stove on, or was it a loose
connection? The free electricity had been reconnected after another prolonged
protest. The resultant flames engulfed the homes, destroying an entire
livelihood. Most of all, they will remember a young girl consumed by the
flames.
On that day
she was sick, so she stayed home, alone. She could not run. As the paramedic
carried her lifeless torso, her unconscious waving arms seemed to say goodbye
to the bemused survivors. “We tried our best,” the firefighters claimed, as
their sirens brightened the blackened earth.
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