Ayyo, it kills what grows fast, they say. But for us, it kills the bus fare and the hope itself first. I see my daughter’s books, and I know these strong poisons are like a faulty main line—they cannot tell good current from bad. That tree I grew from seed, it survived because I tended only to it. Here, they pour the medicine and send you back on that long road, your gut burning. The treatment forgets we are already weak.
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