On a cold December morning, the harmattan breeze was blowing furiously without mercy, Kufre laid under the bridge in a foetal position under layers of rags. This has been his home for over three years. Exactly this time four years ago, he was thrown out from his home. Four Christmases ago, his family had invited a prophetess to the house. It was their last resort; misfortune seemed to hover around the family. After much prayer and fasting, she decided he was the cause of the family's misfortunes, she advised them to throw him out, if they wanted to be free. Without a second thought, his parents threw him out. He cried, begged, promised to always obey their every command, but they didn't listen.
For four years, he had been homeless; sleeping in front of people's shops, under flyovers and bridges. He had hawked on the streets, stolen and picked pocket, all in the bid to feed himself. It was Christmas season again, to him; there was nothing special about the season. When Christmas comes calling, it carries with it memories he wouldn't want to have. Christmas reminded him of how lonely and empty his life was.