Under the Same Sun

By Sjard Braun

For Sipho, born into the vicious circle of poverty, the world is full of hurdles. Amidst the deafening echoes of hunger and the gnawing fear of the unknown, Sipho refuses to succumb to despair. His spirit, resilient as a diamond forged in adversity, dares to dream of a world where the shackles of poverty are shattered. In a world stained by ineq

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookllo Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798891700338

Book preview

UNDER THE SAME SUN

Sjard Braun

Copyright © 2023 Sjard Braun

All rights reserved.

ISBN 979-8-89170-033-8

Bookllo Publishing

Acknowledgements

I am deeply appreciative of Jade Harries, whose input enriched this book immensely. Her help was invaluable, making the story more genuine and engaging.

Special thanks to my wife, Maria Valões Fontenele, for her role in refining the storyline and enhancing its congruence. Her feedback was crucial in identifying gaps, adding depth to the narrative, and making this book more compelling.

1

A piercing ray of sunlight stabbed through the crack in the ceiling, dragging me unwillingly from the depths of my sleep. I winced, squeezing my eyes shut against the intrusive light while a familiar dread clenched tight in my chest. Another day had come, and with it, the same worries and doubts that filled every waking moment. When, I wondered, would this endless cycle ever cease? For now, all I could do was lie still and brace myself for what new hardships this day may bring as the township stirred noisily to life all around me once more. Voices calling out, children playing, the shuffle of weary feet on dirt paths. But within my mind, all was foggy with exhaustion and worry. The days had long since blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last in their hopeless monotony. I awoke only to anxiety and uncertainty, with no sight of relief.

Another day loomed ahead, identical to the one before, with the same struggles to face and the same emptiness in my stomach that could not be filled. Rising slowly, every muscle aching, I rubbed the weariness from my eyes. The small shack offered no escape from the heat. I stepped outside to be greeted by the usual smells and sounds. Children laughed as adults trudged off grim-faced, yet another hopeless day ahead. My gaze roamed the surroundings, feeling detached from it all.

Born into the cycle of poverty that had trapped my parents, I knew its inescapable grip from my first breath. They say poverty is hereditary, and in this township, it seemed a truth–its chains bound each new generation as surely as the last. Survival demanded constant, grinding toil with barely enough reward to still the gnawing pain of hunger. Our sole hope was to somehow find work, any work, to scrape together another meager meal. Yet amidst the darkness, faint memories offered a fleeting escape.

I recall those afternoons spent running wild with Lithle across the sandy fields, kicking an improvised ball without care. Two barefoot children, using a worn-out ball they found in the trash, marked goals with discarded shoes. We played without rules or restrictions, lost in the pure joy of childhood. For moments, we forgot the misery, if only in laughter's echo.

All too swiftly, harsh reality forced us to relinquish those days of carefree play. At only eight years old, the weight of responsibility's yoke descended on my narrow shoulders. Expected now to choose a career to support myself and my family, the pressure bore down, suffocating. The plays ended as adulthood's demands took hold. No longer could we run wild–it was time to face life's cruel truths and scrabble each day for survival's barest necessities. The days of laughter faded into bittersweet memory, and poverty's grip tightened its hold on our young lives.

***

The dense, foreboding clouds gathered high in the sky as I lay on the ground. I felt heavy and weighed down by anxiety. In front of me loomed a massive, intimidating wooden door. Its size and imposing presence sent shivers down my spine. The lights were switched off, and the spacious villa emanated a tempting and terrifying darkness. I tried to ignore the stabbing pain in my chest, clenching my fists to stop my hands from shaking. Sweat trickled down my forehead as my heart raced faster and faster. As I stood frozen before the wooden door, memories of my mother's wise words came to mind. She often reminded me that nothing can be created out of nothing, and to get the job done, I must take responsibility and go ahead. I knew she was right, so I took a deep breath, steadying myself before sneaking along the wall to my right.

The blossoming garden lay before me, and I pushed open the gate gently, but a loud, squeaky noise made me freeze. I waited for the lights to come on, but the darkness persisted, making the imposing building seem even more monstrous. Tears streamed down my face as I felt unworthy of the task. But what choice did I have? This was not my imagined life, but I'd to make it work.

I approached the lounge window stealthily, pulling a stone out of my bag. With one swift motion, the glass shattered into thousands of small pieces. I pulled myself up and climbed through the broken window, relieved to have made progress. I crept over to the flat-screen TV on the other side of the room, wondering how best to escape with it. I planned to sell it on the next day for a handsome profit.

As I stood there, I suddenly realized I was not alone. A tall man appeared before me, his arms crossed. Fear coursed through my veins as I wondered what he would do. Would he call the cops on me? Torture me? I closed my eyes, bracing for impact, but the seconds stretched on, and no contact came. When a strange metallic scent reached my nostrils, my eyes flew open. Before me, the man clutched at his chest, his pajama staining deep red at the heart. Blood flowed between his fingers with each labored pump. His gaze met mine, shocked, confusion swirling in their depths as if begging for an explanation. But I'd none to give. My gaze fell lower, following the source of the scarlet river. Protruding from his sternum was a familiar object I carried for protection. But now the glint of steel mocked me as my pocket knife, once so innocuous, had become a weapon to fell this stranger. Revulsion rose like bile in my throat. I stumbled back, my legs weak as water. What madness had possessed me to do such a thing? As the light fled his eyes, I turned and retched, emptying the contents of my stomach onto the ground. My hands, once steady, now shook beyond control.

The nightmare still gripped me as I awoke. Drenched in sweat, I lay paralyzed, gasping for breath. Each ragged inhale burned as fire in my lungs but did nothing to slow my pounding heart. My mother's words echoed in the dark, a lifeline in a stormy sea of fear. I clutched them tight, focusing on her words as a guiding light. Breathe in deep through your nose, she soothed, let your lungs fill to the brim. Now breathe out slow through your mouth, as if blowing a balloon big and round. Yet no matter how faithfully I followed her instructions, my heart refused to still. It hammered on, fueling the dread that gnawed deep in my gut. What terrible things had my mind conjured while I slept to leave me so shaken? I longed for the morning sun to chase away these shadows, but night held its grip. Sleep, my one escape, remained just out of reach. So I lay staring into the dark, replaying that night's terrors on a loop. They gripped me tighter each time, twisting the knife deeper into my core. By dawn, exhaustion had worn my defenses thin. But at least the sunrise brought comfort–a new day had come, and I'd survived the night.

My mother's income alone could no longer support us, and with my father having passed away before I was born, it was all the more critical for me to start earning at an early age. I'd to make a choice now. Education proved scarce currency in this land, eluding me. The future pressed in on me, heavy as a storm cloud. How do you earn enough to eat yet keep your body and soul intact? Lithle and I'd always walked the same road, but now our paths diverged like a split-trunk tree. Where he chased quick fortune on risky tides, I sought safe harbor in steady work.

Lithle scoffed at my caution, saying I'd never see the world from my little patch. I feared he'd fall like my brother every time he swung for the stars–broken and bleeding with nothing to hold onto. Our road split, but I prayed we both find harbors, he in riches and I in peace of mind. I closed my eyes, trying to find solace in the darkness, but my mind raced. I longed for simpler days when Papa's steady pay had kept our bellies somewhat full. But time had marched on without care for my childhood's end. Now, I stood alone at a crossroads, with ghosts of the past pulling me one way and an uncertain future pushing from the other. Panic clawed at my throat, a caged and feral thing. But I would not let fear rule me, not again. With a deep and shuddering breath, I tamed the terror within, if only for a moment. A quiet strength began to take root and grow in the still that followed.

The wind whipped through the dusty streets as I went home after a long day. The sun had fallen low on the horizon, fading light casting long shadows across my path. My legs ached with fatigue, and I longed for rest. My home came into view–a ramshackle structure on the outskirts of town, little more than a pile of scrap wood and tattered tarps. But it was ours. As I pushed open the creaking door, the familiar scents of wood smoke and stew greeted me. Within, the flickering lamplight illuminated my family at the table. Only two brothers and a sister remained now. Time and circumstance had seen my other siblings drift away on the tides of life. I felt their absence keenly, though I tried not to dwell on memories now past.

A thin pallet of cardboard served as my bed, its rough surface worn smooth by countless nights. Though humble, I was grateful for its comfort. Nearby, my most prized possessions lay–a threadbare blanket gifted by my mother and a book. Its gilded title and portrait of success inspired pursuits of literacy and opportunity. But for now, such dreams would have to wait. Weariness pulled at my bones as I curled beneath the blanket, the book cradled against my chest. Its pages absorbed my tears, as had so many nights before. Sleep soon claimed me, but in dreams, I walked other worlds, unbound by the limits of the waking one. For a time, I was free.

As I returned home the next afternoon, I sensed something was wrong. Usually empty, the alley was crowded with neighbors. My heart began to race as I pushed through, sweat beading on my brow. I broke through to the center and froze. My little sister lay unmoving on the hard-packed dirt. People murmured around her, but I couldn't make out the words through the roaring in my ears. Rushing forward, I fell to my knees and gathered her in my arms, shaking her desperately, refusing to believe she was gone. My mother's sobs broke through my denial. I looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. What happened? She was gasping for breath, she said, but the toxic fumes that blanketed our streets had cemented their hold. Rocking back and forth, I stared unseeing at the surrounding crowd. Their hushed voices seemed to come from far away as if I was trapped in a bubble of private anguish. My sister's face swam before my eyes–her smile, her dancing eyes, the dimples that appeared when she giggled. Never will I see her again.

***

My father was a scrap collector, one of the many unseen souls who toiled to keep this city running. Each day before dawn broke, he would gather his battered wagon and set out into the streets. As the sun rose over the tin rooftops, painting the world in shades of burnt orange, he went about his work. I remember the ache in his shoulders as he hauled pieces of the old world into his cart. Rusty pipes, bent sheets of metal, chunks of wood–all were gathered and sorted through calloused hands. By midday, the heat was oppressive, and sweat soaked through his worn shirt, but still, he pressed on. When, at last, the light began to fade, he returned home, his wagon piled high. But the relief in his eyes as our small hut came into view was dampened by the knowledge of the back-breaking task that would repeat itself on the morrow. As he emptied that day's findings and began repairs for the next collection, my mother would bring him water and a meager meal. Her worry for his health was evident, though she said nothing of it. My father had chosen this life of toil and sacrifice so that I might have a chance at a different future. And though the ache of poverty was ever-present, in those quiet moments, I also saw the strength of their love for each other and for me. That love kept our little family going in that place and time.

I pushed the wheelbarrow across the parched earth. My first day of work had begun. Cracks had formed in the dry soil, the remnants of past rains long forgotten in this arid landscape. As I walked, the wheelbarrow rattled and shook, its rusty frame protesting against the uneven terrain. In the distance, a mountain of refuse came into view–my destination for the day, the old dumping ground. Already, beads of sweat were forming on my brow. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, squinting against the glare.

With a deep breath to steel my resolve, I plunged my hands into the rubbish heap before me. I began to hum a tune, anything to lift my spirits amid the unpleasant task. My fingers searched blindly through the debris, digging deeper to uncover hidden treasures. Soon, my arms ached with the effort, but I pressed on, sifting through plastic and rusting metal. And then, by some stroke of luck, my fingers closed around something solid and smooth. A rusted piece of iron emerged in the sunlight. A whoop of joy escaped my parched lips at the discovery. More parts followed–pipes, hinges, and scrap, all glittering like buried gold.

Lost in my finds, I felt as if I swam in riches. But my reverie was shattered by a familiar voice calling my name. Lithle stood behind me, a reminder of the diverging paths we now walked. Reluctantly, I returned to my work as he departed, my heart heavy with regret. The setting sun warmed over the dusty streets as I went home.

Though my body ached with fatigue, my heart swelled with purpose–I'd found my calling in this life, following in my father's footsteps. Yet my joy was bittersweet, for thoughts of Lithle still lingered heavily in my mind. We had been as close as brothers since childhood, side by side through all life's adventures, both joyous and grim. The diverging paths we now walked strained the bond we'd forged through years of companionship.

A heaviness settled on my heart as Lithle's mother relayed the tragic news. I nod as she continues, They said Lithle was armed during a drug run, and that he appeared ready to fire upon the officers rather than surrender. It was this action that led them to shoot him in self defense. A somber silence falls between us as I take in the full circumstances of his death. While his choices don't excuse his actions, they stir in me greater empathy for the systems that failed him and the desperation that led him to such a tragic end. Lithle, though estranged, was gone too soon, lost to the violence that plagued our streets. As she wept, his mother’s anguish cut me to my core.

Though Lithle and I'd walked separate roads, I could not abandon this woman in her hour of deepest grief. Gently, I took her hands in mine. We sat together long into the night, sharing memories of brighter days when we were all a family. Her tears turned to bittersweet smiles as old stories stirred fond recollections of Lithle's youth. In her eyes, I saw not only her own sorrow but also the suffering of our community–the desperation that had led Lithle and so many others down a path of no return. A fire was kindled in my heart to change this tragic cycle, to lift my people from the mire of poverty and violence.

Dawn broke as I vowed to honor Lithle's memory through action. This loss would not be in vain. I would channel my grief into empowering others and building a future where our children did not have to fear an early grave. Most of all, I swore to stand with Lithle's mother as a family, giving her the support to heal.

A heavy grief settled on us all as we laid Lithle to rest. Gazing upon his mother, her eyes hollow with sorrow, I was struck by the immense loss she now faced alone. My thoughts drifted to happier memories–how her home was always filled with warmth, the mouthwatering scents of her cooking, and the boundless love and sacrifice she poured into her son each day. Though her hands were worn from tireless labor, her smile lit up the room whenever Lithle entered. Now, that light was gone, leaving only despair in its wake.

I vowed then that her sacrifice would not be in vain. In Lithle's memory and to honor all she'd given, I was resolved to build a future where no mother would have to bury her child due to the perils of poverty and lack of opportunity. Her loss would be the catalyst to spark change, whatever it took to lift our people from the mire of desperation and give each soul a fair chance at life. This was how I could best honor Lithle and all he once meant. In this township, most people turned to alcohol to numb their pain. But I refused to fall into that trap. Instead, I became a workaholic, pushing myself to the limits of exhaustion in the hopes that more labor would bring me closer to financial freedom–a goal that seemed impossible to reach.

The sun had not yet risen as I stirred, roused from my dreams by an insistent inner voice urging me to action. Sliding from my cardboard mattress, I ignored the leaden weariness in my limbs and the hollow ache in my stomach, empty since yesterday's meager meal. Another day had come, and with it, opportunity. I checked my savings–a paltry sum that brought little comfort against the mounting debts and doubts gnawing at my resolve. Still, I'd a plan. Where there's a plan, there's hope. The hours blurred into backbreaking toil under the punishing sun as I pursued each prospect, haggled for better prices, and stretched my scant resources into another ten rand win, another day's survival. It was never enough, yet giving up was not an option.

Alone that evening, as shadows lengthened across my tiny room, anxiety's familiar claws sank in. But I would not surrender. Steeling myself, I ran to the Atlantic Ocean, hoping to find solace in its vastness before the struggles awaiting me on the morrow.

The open water always had a profound effect on me. It was like looking into a universe of possibilities where anything could happen. The endless horizon could hold the key to a better life or hide unspeakable horrors. I always relished this feeling, letting it inspire me to dream bigger and reach for the stars. The fresh breeze hit me like a cool shower as I walked the shore, and I felt entirely free, if only for a moment. The waves crashed against the big rocks with a fury that reminded me of nature's invincible power. The sand beneath my feet was soft and warm, and I marveled at the thought of billions of grains that stretched as far as the eye could see. But too soon, reality called me back. A small portion of porridge was all we could afford to eat.

I grabbed my battered wheelbarrow and headed into the streets to begin my daily search for scrap metal to sell. It was a precarious way to survive, but it was the only life I knew for now. As