One Christmas Eve
I began to hate God at the tender age of five. I hated him for allowing my parents to be killed in a fatal accident. I hated him for pushing me out in the rain, cold and alone. I hated him for everything. With my parents dead and gone, I was forced to stay with an aunt, who blamed me for everything that ever went wrong. “Kolawole!” she would scream my name and I would run fearfully to her, fully aware that her wrath could bring down the earth. “Where is the money I put on the table?” she would roar at me. “I didn’t take any money. Aunty, I swear.” “Liar! You better tell me the truth now or I would put an end to your miserable life!” “But I didn’t take the money.” Though innocent, she would cut my flesh with razor blade and rub the wound with fresh pepper. I endured this hell until I could take it no more. Barely ten years old, I wandered into the street. The street brimmed with pain; its calloused hands offered nothing but venom and good grief. Days spent rummaging rubbish for food and...
