A WALK THROUGH EASTLIEGH

As I walk the streets of Eastleigh, I watch. I observe. In the bin—a street boy. By the road—a pedestrian. Up above—a woria on a high-rise balcony. The pedestrian watches the street boy and in his heart, a quiet prayer: Thank you, Lord, that I’m not in the bin. At least I have a job, a house, A wage, a place to lay my head. Then he lifts his gaze to the man above, the Muslim, famously known as Mkubwa. His eyes shine with longing— and again, a prayer: Lord, I wait, I hope, but still, I stand on the same spot. Why him and not me? Down below, the street boy watches too. In his heart, a storm brews: hate—for himself and his fate, bitterness—for the gap between man and man, lust—for a life he’s only imagined. Yet somewhere deeper, a flicker of grace remains: Thank you, Lord, for breath, for one more chance to rise, And prove my worth. And from the tower, Mkubwa sees them both. He folds his arms, leans on glass, and murmurs inside: We are all men, formed from the same dust, yet cast into different stories. Then a shadow of doubt: Why was I given, and they denied?