His fingers gently ran along the outer walls of the houses he passed by as he walked along that lonely path. The mould had grown a layer thick on the stones that were used to make the path. The paint on the wall was shedding, and the wall cried out for a new coat of paint, much to the ignorance of the owners. The loose flakes fell off into the ditch as his fingers gently caressed the wall. The cold winds were blowing gently. The trees stood stark naked. The streets were painted with a warm colour with orange and yellow as the leaves that came off the trees covered the streets. The sky was reddish. The trees’ shadows grew longer as the sun slowly disappeared, dipping into the horizon, as though the sea was swallowing it up. The streets grew darker, and the air colder as nightfall crept in. The moon was faintly visible, though the sun had not gone completely.
He shivered as he quickened his footsteps. It was cold, and his thin, filthy and soiled shirt that was tearing apart did not offer much resistance against the winds, or warmth against the cold night air. His feet were aching from the walking he had done, barefoot. His hair was scruffy and unkempt, and his lips were dry and cracking. His throat longed for water, or any form of fluid that could quench his thirst. His pants, once denim blue, was now the greyish and had holes here and there. He had nothing with him, except a bag of dry maize and barley, plus a leather water bag that was empty.
“Just a little more. Just a little more... Hold on and be strong.”
He grew faintish. His teeth were chattering. His fingers were numb. It was only sheer determination, and the dying words of his mother that made him continue his journey.