217J was a four cornered rectangular enclosure, saddled with prosaic colours and blighted hope for comfort, and refuge. Along came several periods when the winds were harsh and bashed the shaky dilapidated windows, they were fragile and freckled like the bones of a disentangled and disintegrated being. Fixed in Portable and accessible height of customary design width; with broken louvers hanging tattered with one or two hinges to hold them forth. Seemingly a heavy punch would send them crashing in a light thud, outwards into the wayward grassy plains and inward into the warm enclosure. We were there when the noisy chants and yells reeled through the door; when the shuttering sun basked in its flurry rays through the gaping door and windows, often times possessing mild scouring temperatures; when passer-by of same status banged the metal doors, sending quivers /jitters down your spine if you were a new entrant.
In time we slept in closeness with the rats as they gnawed, squeezing through their ruffled and hairy bodies unduly on us, ululating and squeaking in the dark, bumping and hitting through the darkness, a scary but enthralling feeling you would get.

At first sight or at a glancing view stands a flattened wardrobe made of a common polished material, worked into the walls by design, with lockers for entrants to share. The opposite end possessed dual wardrobes for clothing, and all kind of wears. In time past their enclosure had been broken, and had been used as a flat support system for bags and shoes alike, nailed on both ends , shabbily done and handsomely noticeable. A short stare at it; and there would be a sense or feeling of a mighty fall or collapse, unloading all such baggage, luggage and wears.
In the yanking* wardrobe were tatteredly ordered clothing, filed in a near- say half hazard fashion, It was a house for all clothing, clothing all kinds, for all and for none. Towards the other end of both corners rests some form of kitchen wares, cookeries and utensils in indolent and disorganized fashion, a home for pests and infinitesimal insects. Right at the other corner was spaced for the night: A sniff deeper down at the lower end of the ward robe at this corner would send you a bad omen, it was a favourable refuge for the mosquitoes, that was theirs and nobody was going to wrestle them for it.
Faded painted walls, creamy concrete webbed roofs, plainly polished and battered flooring, were the left overs of definitives that defined 217J.
217J was slated by the stairs that sent you reaching upwards or downwards, that gave you a peculiar feel or sense of pulsating insecurity.
The most frequented occurrence that crept through us was the frequent outages hassled and tossed at our 217J.
Being not the only one within its adjoining series, its reoccurring cases of power outages stroke and confronted us with misdemeanours, and disgruntled outlooks expressed verbally and unequivocally written on our faces.
217J came in sordid, perturbed convenience for temporal refuge as the scenario called and served us. All could have been foretold and told but were seen in action of overbearing glimmering and glittering memories, simmering and wavering as time slowly crept by.
Two years had passed; and by acts of managerial interventions, metal detachable beds and plastic foams were driven in, piled on one end. Consented rallying and scurry efforts were made, in a short time 217 was seen carrying a different outlook.
Of all reasons and reasons, the most poignant and pivotal was its offerance of refuge, it was shelter; a roof above the head.
So much could be told of 217j. A few things to tell about 217j were never too much to tell.

At an uncle’s place I could see the multi coloured fluorescent light hanging majestically up the roof; with my back laying softly on the bed as I stare bluntly and vaguely at it;
A few times I wondered why a room so clearly lighted up lacks the basic essence of adequate window vent and an electrical fan.
Today is no different; I am reading a book half minded waiting peacefully and solemnly for dinner to be served, as I lay half lazily and half alert on a midsized bed that could verily accommodate up to three bodies--such as me and my two male cousins. As I lay softly I can’t help but cast my dreary and perturbing mind back to when I first visited here; it served as a short means of escape and refuge from the threatening arms of insecure destitution that steered me in the face. I was timid, anxious and almost naïve, yet I act like I was a growing young man and not a child.
On my late evening arrival, I struggled to find my way; enduring the suspenseful and tense short journey. I had never been here before, hence my lack of exposure and anxiety would not let me off the hook easily.
I got off the bus after squeezing myself out of the packed and congested back sit. As I stood, across the road I could see my uncle holding a phone firmly and staring expectantly across. I remember crossing briskly to the other side with my unhandy baggage, and greeting him quickly. we walked side by side our shoulders as he recounted briefly to me, my family’s history. His warmness and hearted greetings almost set the tone for the discontinuous feeling of awkwardness I was feeling. Yet I dragged myself on, tailoring on with him, and seconding my tingly voice to his drab stories.
I had met his wife. And his two sons; and had offered them sweets (Perhaps trying to act like a big brother).
Now I’m back in the present moment, with it’s over bearing presence and awkwardness. Few of the times I would be invited to come watch TV in the sitting room; which was a few steps away, and was linked by a small passage which also served as a veranda. But I hardly wanted out, and would only force myself out the few times I did. And the he few times I went out to the sitting room I would rather watch juvenile and kid-dish programmes.
I have my meals on the small table just beside the bed, and get un-frequent knocks on the wooden door each time they are ready; a form of permission from me to allow entrance. Sometimes I get treated like a prince and get hailed and praised; perhaps for my striking calmness and composure. Still I get the feeling of a stranger running within my blood.
Within the moment i pick up my unhandy diary and scribbled a few of my thoughts hastily zooming through my mind. Each time I settled to write I hardly wanted a distraction; but half of the time my boisterous and energetic cousins would bust in uninvited, starting a chatty conversation with me. I was good at hiding my true feelings hence I would pretend like i was interested (but I wasn’t). That was one glaring difference between them and my immediate family; they hardly understand my gloomy and solitary lifestyle. My cousins had intruding behaviours, they butted into my privacy half of the time.
I remember running errands with my cousins and doing a few house chores as a sign of my responsiveness. We gradually got along quite well and became like pals.
I remember all these memories fleetingly as i try to pen down the narrative of my experience at my uncle’s place. But the words were hardly forth coming. yet I wrote what came to my mind and stuck to my heart.
At my absence I feel the missing aura and soothing environment of the neighbourhood. The ease and freewill lifestyles of my new found family; by proximity and origin.
Between the passing moments I take a pause and a short breath. And thought mildly about my uncle’s previous place; the privacy and serenity i enjoyed in between my awakening sadness and anxiety. I get the grumbling feeling I would love to visit there one more time.