217J was a four cornered rectangular enclosure, with prosaic colours and blighted comfort. 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 louvres 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 passers-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 their way 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 enclosures 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 could lead to, sensing the feeling of a mighty fall or collapse, unloading all such luggages and wears.
In the waywardly open wardrobe were tatteredly ordered clothings, filed in a near-say haphazard fashion, it was a house for all kind clothings. 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 land you the greeting of an unpleasant odour. 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 situated by the stairs that sent you reaching upwards or downwards within the building.
This gave a peculiar feel or sense of pulsating insecurity.
The most frequented occurrence that crept through us was the frequent power 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 disgruntled feelings and outlooks; expressed verbally, and unequivocally written on our faces. 217J came as a sordid convenience for temporal refuge as the scenario served us.
All that could have been foretold were seen in overbearing and glimmering 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, and piled on one end of the room.
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 are never too much to tell.