Poverty taught us how to celebrate whatever is brought to our table, no matter how little.
We got used to eating for quantity not quality. Our stomachs mastered the art of being fed once daily.
We could only imagine the chicken and fried rice that we never saw as we sipped garri without sugar with smiles on our faces—think of better lives we never had as we retired to the slums as usual.
You could see the effect of eating on empty plates on our roboust faces. We accepted our fate, like a pregnant woman about to enter into the labour room.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be your name, bless us this day our daily bread no matter how small.