The joy of the poor is to dream. It transcends them from a world where kernel is a delicacy to one where meat is a snack. Their somnolent eyes closed, it builds them a castle they wish not to return from, giving them hope in the odd hours of the night or on a hot afternoon, only to display its wonderful craft of delusion by gracefully easing them back to their wretched world as they wake up, shocked at their sudden demotion like recuperated amnesiac patients.
Little Chisom sprawled outside, overran by a farrago of thoughts. The sun scorched. Mama was having a nap in the room herself, Chisom and Late Papa slept in. In the house, another name for lunch was siesta. He forced himself up from the ground and cared less to dust sand off his buttocks and legs. He only succeeded in cleaning his hand on his shorts that shamelessly revealed his little gun yet to release any bullet. He shuffled inside, where his petite mother was and lay bedside her. He did not look at her countenance, so that their chemistry of poverty would not click and wake her up. Staying late at the farm would be the consequence. He only lay rightwards his mother on the mat.
It was time for lunch. Thirty minutes into the sumptuous meal, he saw himself inside a room in a duplex. The room had extravagant furnishings amongst other things. He could only see these things in the theatre of dreams; of course, dream is a theatre. He heard cars horn outside and melodious voices sing, from an electronic sound system. He was amazed. His prayers had been answered. His life had changed.
He was not awed to his satisfaction yet and wanted to see more. He headed for the door and pulled it open. There was a corridor. He shuffled forward, observing the beautiful yellow walls. He saw a door at the extreme and entered. To his glee, there were no cobwebs on the roof, unlike at home.
The appearance and fragrance of the convenience filled his bladder with urine of ecstasy. He pulled down his purple shorts and set his tool to pass water into the cistern. The urine was hot. The feeling was unreal. It was flowing, seamlessly. He had never felt that way since he had been passing water in the house. If possible, he did not mind urinating forever.
Something landed on his cheek. It sounded like rumbling thunder and felt like a fiery brush from something calloused. It roused him, like the haunted. He tried to rush to the door to leave the convenience; thinking the owner of the house had returned.
The second slap invaded his mind, reminding him of where he was. He had baptized his mother in a pool of urine. She was furious and left the room to clean herself up. Chisom had erred for dreaming big.