I am considering several ideas for my next book. One of them concerns the life and eventual transformation of a steeet boy in East Africa. The following is a brief excerpt. I welcome your comments:
He ran behind a small toy made of wire, wood and maize cobs. The “car” also had a wire passenger with head and arms that somehow resembled the boy. Child and car pushed through the pulsating crowd of late afternoon pedestrians who hardly noticed him as he moved among them with an apparent sense of where he was heading. A short distance down the street, he moved upward to a grassy plateau surrounded by a roundabout, around which rapidly moving and wildly painted vehicles competed for entrance into one of four African highways. Just before crossing the road, the boy reached down to scoop up the metal toy into his hands as he dodged a matatu to reach the safety of the familiar place where he slept and sometimes cooked scavenged potatoes or other vegetables. Other boys were there stretched out barefooted in torn clothing on the grassy elevation. Several of them greeted the boy, while others ate or sniffed glue from small plastic bottles hidden inside their grimy coats. One offered him an avocado as he chose a soft place to land.
Dreams belong to those who know their name. Hope embraces those with family. He had neither. He moved among a pack of boys that called him Njoroge, but the name resided more with them than it did him. He did not know his given name because he had never known those who kept his name and origin hidden from the past and present. There was no such thing as the future, only survival. Hunger does not ordinarily allow space for reflection, but he considered his life as he sucked an avocado and wondered what Murungu held against him.