The stench of London Street clung to me, a familiar companion woven into the fabric of my worn-out clothes. It was a suffocating blend of Razzi beer parlor's stale fumes and the GreenLand brothel's whispers, a smell that had deepened over the years, making our small corner of the world increasingly uninhabitable.

I struggled to navigate the treacherous landscape of dirt piles and jostling bodies, a chaotic dance where everyone was always in a hurry. Hands brushed against me, shoulders bumped, but I moved with practiced ease. A quick handshake with a friend on a passing bike, a fleeting smile shared in the relentless current of the street. It was 6:30 PM, and the last thing on my schedule was rest.

My soiled shoes, caked with water, dirt, and oil, were discarded by the door. I pulled back the curtain of our single room, only to be met by an empty space. Again. My younger siblings, Osifa, Kiki, and Tami, had failed to lock the door. Three days ago, it was the same. A fresh wave of rage surged through me, a promise of well-deserved spankings for their little butts when they returned from their evening ritual of play. This neighborhood was a hive of petty thieves, and even a moment's inattention could cost you everything. Survival here demanded wisdom, patience, and constant vigilance.