Being a reclusive person, who’d rather remain oblivious to the intricacies of social media, I spend the better part of my day working and studying.
When not conformed to this boring schedule, I am occupied by yet another boring activity, chilling at my balcony.
There’s this modest building, adjacent and a few hundred yards away from mine. Six or seven rooms in total, with shared washrooms for everyone. I’ve spent so much time analyzing it that I know all its occupants and their respective schedules.
I particularly pay attention to the first room’s tenants, a rasta (dreadlocked) man, his woman and their super child. Every Sunday, after church, the man and his family will dress nicely and go out. Every Sunday.
Judging from where they live— insensitive but acutely accurate—they don’t have much. But they are happy. And more importantly, they seem contented.
In a rat race world obsessed with the pursuit of wealth, and rightfully so, I’d gladly give up everything for this man’s life. A ride or die by your side and a progeny to take after your legacy.
The perfect life?