The wind felt hot on Zibe's body as he squatted by the roadside along with his mates. Their hands curved like broken bowls and their face an utter picture of disdain and struggle. The seventeen boys stretched out by the roadside chanting the familiar tune they had come to memorize, except Zibe.
Zibe was eleven years old, but a little too short for his age, people around him suggested he was going to be a dwarf in his later life. That always made Zibe laugh, he would set his hands akimbo and shriek, then say, "I've seen worse things"
Truly, Zibe had been through a lot, in fact, none of the seventeen boys stretched out on that lonely roadside could have gone through half of what Zibe has been through. Perhaps, he had already been cursed from the heavens, even when he had been in his mother's belly. His mother was a young girl, just about to write her WASSCE exams, but unfortunately, was gang raped by a few boys who happened to always linger around her neighborhood. After the incident though, she never saw them again. But she always had a reminder, Zibe. He was the product of the terrible thing that had happened to her, and she hated him for that. A day after Zibe's birth, his mother took him away and disposed of him in front of a strangers house.
That was where it all began, the family who stayed there took Zibe in, after of course, the series of confusion. They weren't rich but were comfortable and always tried to make ends meet. They had named him Zibe because he was pale and dark at the same time, looking a lot like a Zebra, although it felt odd to name him Zebra, so they just called him Z.B till they could come up with a better name. But as he grew to talk, he couldn't pronounce Z.B he always said his name was Zibe, and everyone just went along with it.
After a few years, when he was finally old enough to start school, he was enrolled in the cheapest Nursery school money can find. But Zibe would have none of it, he was undoubtedly stubborn. He never stayed in class, never listened and he cried a lot. The one thing he did was sing. He had a beautiful voice and sometimes the teachers would condone his behavior because he could sing.
When Zibe got to Primary three though, the family grew tired, they had enough immediate problems than to worry about a boy who didn't even have a Surname. So Zibe dropped out of school and started to accompany his foster mother to the market. She sold logs of wood. Zibe was six then. Still very young, but so overworked! He would help her take the logs of wood from where she bought it to where she would sell. Then when customers came, he would mount the logs of wood on his head and help these customers to where they would board a tricycle.
This went on for months, Zibe grew thin and pale again and his head and neck always hurt from the weight of all the wood he had to carry. He sometimes blamed his stout growth on the logs of wood. Zibe was always exhausted and sleep deprived, till one day, he had had enough, he picked an argument with his foster mother refusing to help her for the day, got extremely angry and walked out on her.
He turned seven after a few days, and started to regret his actions but remember, he was undoubtedly stubborn, so he refused to go back. He had a friend on the streets he had made his home who taught him to write songs of his own since he loved to sing so much. Zibe learnt the musical notes and improved his talent.
Although he had to live on the streets, so his lifestyle changed, he ate occasionally and bathed once in a fortnight, sometimes twice. He had a scarred education and could read at a third grade level. So on stuffy evenings, when the wind was hot on his skin, he would squat by the roadside alongside the seventeen boys and beg for alms.
He had his own tune though, he didn't chant the usual rhyme the other boys usually sang. He didn't like it.
So on that faithful evening, when he gotten enough money to last him till the next day, he stood up right to take a walk, shirtless with his stained knickers and flabby makeshift shoes. He dipped his hands in his pockets and strolled, singing beautifully to a song he had written a day before.
A few steps ahead of him was a gracious looking man, from Zibe's view he had a shining forehead, this was because, Zibe could hardly see anyone's forehead, but this particular man brought such grace with him his forehead was shining!
He walked by Zibe but then stopped, he had to look back, look twice. The man wondered how such a intriguing tune could come from such a little boy, and he had to ask.
"Hello, hello, do you have a second " The man called out. He walked back to Zibe, but Zibe frowned and squeezed his face, he wasn't going to give this strange man the time of day.
" No, sir"
The man was taken aback. How could someone be so polite yet so rude. He loved it! Zibe's spirit intrigued him.
The man laughed a little then said,
"No need to be afraid young boy "
" Who said I was afraid? "
" Nobody, nobody said you were afraid, I just want to be your friend "
" Sorry, I don't need your friendship sir"
Zibe turned to go.
"I just love your voice, I'll love to see you sing in front of a large audience! "
Zibe stopped walking.
" Yeah, you could rehearse in my studio, you could write your own songs! "
Zibe turned to face the man.
" what do you mean? "
" My name is Dylan Richardson, I own a studio and I have connections that could get you a slot in many shows "
" Wait, wait a minute " Zibe couldn't believe his ears," Do you really want to help me "
" Well, of course, if you let me "
Zibe held his head with both hands, jumped and shrieked at the same time, it made Dylan laugh cause he didn't even know it was possible!
After a few minutes, when Zibe had eventually calmed down, Dylan started to ask about his life while they strolled to the hotel Dylan was lodging at and Zibe came out with everything and narrated his entire life story, well except his mother's part cause, obviously only you and I know that.
"Why do you want to help me Mr Richardson, I don't even have a name " Zibe said, after a while.
" We don't necessarily have to tag ourselves with what other people call us, our lives is what we make of it. If you want to be Zibe, then you go ahead and be Zibe "
A wide grin smeared across Zibe's face, and he held up both his arms as he said,
" I don't want to be Zibe, I want to be Zibe the singer! "
©Maymunah Kadiri
#ANSAShortStoryContest
