The children on 4 Wilson Street have an understanding with hunger. The louder their stomachs growl, the deeper they pretend to sleep- sometimes to avoid his anger. Everyone knew about 4 Wilson Street but no one said anything loud enough to be carried beyond the octave of a rumour. When the four-year-old is seen walking to school with his hands clenched tightly in his older sister's, his uniform five Shades Darker than it should be with crusted mucus on his face, the old woman who sells coconut candy and other dried treats would pull him to the gap between her legs and negotiate the terms of him allowing her to wipe his nose and comb his hair, this was the only time you could see him laughing.
His older sister was much worse. Forced to shave her hair from a lice infection, the bumps confirmed she did it by blade. The bruises confirmed she did it by herself. The old woman would press a Naira note into her hands as she at the same time refused the money. Everyone listened to the old woman, even their father who staggers down the streets in the late afternoons stinking like yesterday's waste. He sits down on the bench beside her stall, anticipating the right she was about to rent free
“I know, I know… I know. I'm a bad mother.” he said, staring at his feet.
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