Bittersweet 6
The lesions had virtually conquered my skin. They were relentless. I couldn’t help myself; the itch was a madness that demanded to be scratched. But the relief was short-lived. The scratching only broke the skin, releasing a clear liquid that spread across my body like a slow poison, birthing more lesions where it touched. I was a walking portrait of misery, pain, and despair. Eventually, the tide turned. Each day found me growing a little stronger. The angry sores dried up, leaving behind a map of scars on my skin—a testament to the battle I had survived. But survival came with a price. As soon as my uncle's wife saw that I was on my feet, my reprieve ended. The hawking continued immediately. In those days, I cannot say I was anything more than a beast of burden. I felt like a slave, I was worked like a slave, and in my tattered clothes, I looked like a slave. I continued hawking for three more years before my uncle decided I should resume my primary school education. When he told...