I Grew Up Poor
Mom never had a refrigerator to herself when we lived in that house with several other relatives' families. She stores the morning leftover lunch in a wooden cabinet so that mosquitoes and flies and cats would not get to them. And we have these leftover food fried together to make us dinner. It is nothing short of a crime against humanity for food to be thrown away.
The few families have to share a refrigerator in the common open kitchen which is never lit at night. Sis and I would do 'scissors paper stone' to determine who would run the fifty metres and get the butter for our bread at night. One night, it is my turn. I gulp as I think of the mosquitoes and wild animals out there.
In my long cotton pants, I run like the wind to the door that would open and give us some butter and some light. I look inside and grab the coveted butter. I then deliberately let the door close slowly so that I would have some light as I make my sprint back. As I do so, I feel a soft warm mass bump against my legs and it almost makes me fall flat on my face. I had stepped on Grandmother's cat Black Panther. It let out a shrill yelp and then an angry cry. Soon, a chorus of cats and dogs start howling in the dark for the butter thief. The cacophony of animal sounds is deafening. Sis beckons me to the house and slams the door. She is laughing hysterically by now.
I am almost crying as I tell her in between mouthfuls of bread that I am NOT going back there to return the wretched block of butter.
51-55
