One. Two. Three…Ten. His tent. Ten is the number of his tent. It is one of the things he carries in his small military back pack. Together with the other homeless people in this city, he erects his tent every night at this park. He had inherited this tent from his street dad who was shot dead last week. He was found at the State House gate at odd hours. He had gone there to ask for a job. He has a degree in Journalism. One street kid had said. I heard that he got his degree from Havard University. Another one had added. He had been hunting for a job for years. His wife went away with four kids. His only relative in the city kicked him out his house after staying for three years without a job. I can’t feed and house you forever. The relative insisted. One more month please. He had begged. He was kicked out anyway. He had no place to go to. No money to buy food and no one else to seek help from. He found a new family. Street family.
Everyone knew him as Mr. D. Perhaps D stood for David or Daniel or God knows what. People just called him Mr. D. A friendly man. A very generous person. He found him laying down on one of the benches of the park at night and invited him over to his tent. Even though very small, they both spent the night in the tent. He protected him. He taught him never to give up. The little food they found, they could sit down in the evening and share as a family.
4.25 am. One of the Clocks at the park indicated. He had to get up and start hunting. Everyone else needed to. He had been promised a job by one of the city cleaners. He wasn’t going to be around today so he asked him to step in for him. He’ll be earning two hundred shillings for that day. An opening. He told himself while undoing the tent.
This is the part two of the story HIM. Part one is available here.