In the small, dusty village of Yumuakoro, a 16-year-old boy named Chisum had already lived a life full of struggle. He was tall and lean, with deep brown eyes that always looked tired—not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of too much suffering in too few years. His mother had died when he was ten. His father had disappeared long before that. Since then, he had lived with his uncle, Zubie, who treated him less like family and more like a houseboy.
Every morning, long before the sun fully rose, Chisum was out on the road with a black bucket full of cold sachet water, shouting, “Pure water! Cold pure water!” around the noisy motor park. The heat burned his rough skin, and his slippers had holes so big that sand slipped in with every step. This was his life: sweat, hunger, shouting, and the endless feeling that the world had forgotten him.
One hot day at the motor park, as keke and buses honked and conductors yelled, a long black SUV glided through the chaos. It looked lik…..Read Full Story Here.………..
