His thin legs juggle round in his oversized trousers, his upper body submerged in the parachute that is his shirt. He threads carefully as he approaches his house refusing to permit his big toe to enlarge the hole that is being drilled through his shoe.
His mind races towards what valuable he has left that can be quickly exchanged for money. His children school fees are due and he can’t shake the feeling that any day now, they’ll be sent back from school. He toggles the key in the lock and opens the door. The only sign of life is the creaking sound his door produces. Another reminded that his life can do with some more lubrication to make things easier.
His wife is at her kiosk, she works really hard but never seems to make enough money even on a very good day. He slouches in the worn out couch in what should be his living room, but is actually just the side of the kitchen with the TV and chair. The beauties of one bedroom apartments.
He never thought his life would have taken this turn, never saw it coming. Dreams of grandeur and greatness as a child retired as he grew old and the stark realities took hold. He closes his eyes to take a nap, a part of him hoping to wake up and realizing his entire life has been a dream, another part hoping he doesn’t wake up anymore. Surely he can’t take any more of this life.
He is the man in the street. The political savant, football enthusiast, family man and the one that works day and night to get food for the next night and day. He doesn’t understand where things are headed he only knows the rope of life has clung to his neck and is squeezing the very essence of his existence.
He is the man on the street.