Look at anything but his yellow eyes and cracked lips.
His dusty dark skin is infectious so I must shrivel away from his presence.
His dull skin wrapped around his cadaverous bones is a sign.
Don’t look at his empty broken plate.
His torn clothes dangling from his shoulder is another sign.
He is one of them.
“Liars!” The Keke driver exclaims. “They are all the same. Don’t trust them.”
And so he shoos them away.
And so he shoos him away.
I see the disappointment cloud the eyes of this little one.
I know for a few seconds, in his eyes, I had been a king and he had come to my table for a feast but what should I have done?
Guilt fills me as I watch the beggar child, disappointed but still hopeful, walk to another passerby who will be his king for a few more seconds.