That night, after the nephew of the pancake man warned me about his uncle's temperament, I lay awake, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling. Thoughts swirled in my mind like a tempest. Had I made a grave mistake? Had I ventured into a situation that would only add salt to my already gaping wounds? My father's words echoed faintly in my ears, but there was no turning back now—I had burned my bridges.
Early the next morning, the pancake man woke me before dawn, urging me to learn the trade. I followed him to the kitchen, where he began the ritual of pancake preparation. The smell of batter and frying oil filled the room, but my mind was preoccupied with the reality of my ignorance. As I fumbled with the tools, it became clear to him that I knew nothing about making pancakes. Frustrated, he barked that he would send me back home.
But how could I return? What would I go back to? I had lost my eggs and peanuts—the very foundation of my modest trade. Desperation clung to my every word as I begged him to let me stay and learn. Perhaps, seeing the sincerity in my eyes or realizing I had nowhere else to go, he reluctantly agreed.
"You'll learn from me," he said. "But don't get too comfortable."
He explained the daily routine: in the early morning, we would prepare the pancakes together. Afterward, I would deliver them to the shops. I vaguely remembered him showing me the route the night before, but it had been dark, and the streets were unfamiliar. That first day, I set out with a bucket of pancakes, determined to prove my worth.
However, as I wandered aimlessly through the city, my confidence crumbled. I couldn't recall the locations of the shops, and my anxiety mounted with each passing minute. Onlookers mistook me for a street vendor and beckoned me to sell them pancakes. By the end of the day, the bucket was empty—but not in the way it was meant to be.
When I finally returned home, I was met with an avalanche of anger. The pancake man berated me, calling me a fool for not following his instructions. His nephew, who seemed to delight in my misery, smirked in the corner. I endured the humiliation in silence, knowing I had no alternative.
The next day, he accompanied me again to show me the route. This time, I memorized every turn and landmark, determined not to make the same mistake. Afterward, he began teaching me the intricacies of pancake-making, his patience wearing thin at my every misstep.
Life under his roof was grueling. He left early for his other job and returned late at night, leaving me to fend for myself during the day. My meals consisted of two small potatoes—barely enough to stave off hunger. As the days turned into weeks, the constant pangs of hunger gnawed at my resolve. On good days, neighbors in the compound would pity me and offer scraps of food.
One evening, I gathered the courage to ask him for better meals. He dismissed my plea with a wave of his hand. "I don't have money to waste on you," he snapped. "Be grateful for what you have."
The breaking point came less than a month later. The unrelenting hunger, coupled with his nephew's constant taunts, became unbearable. I approached him, asking for my wages so I could leave. His response was cold and final: "If you want to go, go. But you'll leave with nothing."
Faced with no other option, I sought refuge at one of the shops we supplied pancakes to. The shop owner, a kind man with a warm demeanor, listened as I poured out my woes. He offered me a job and a place to stay, promising to pay me the same amount I earned with the pancake man. Though the pay was meager, the prospect of escaping my current misery was too tempting to refuse.
When I informed the pancake man of my decision, he flew into a rage, accusing me of betrayal. But I stood firm. I packed my few belongings and moved in with the shop owner.
Life with him was a stark contrast to what I had endured. He treated me with respect, often asking for my input on meals. We shared the same bed and ate the same food. For the first time in months, I felt a semblance of stability.
But old habits die hard, as they say. I began to steal from him—small amounts of money and items from the shop. My actions were driven more by impulse than need, and I convinced myself he wouldn't notice.
One day, a friend from my village called. He lived in the city and invited me to visit. When I arrived, I was amazed by the luxurious lifestyle he and his housemates enjoyed. They lived extravagantly, their pockets lined with money from sources they didn't disclose. They urged me to move in, promising a life of abundance. Tempted by their promises, I informed the shop owner that I was returning home. He pleaded with me to stay, but my mind was made up.
The reality of living with my village friends was far from the paradise they had painted. At home, food was scarce, and I often went hungry. The little money I had saved was quickly borrowed—and never returned. Their lavish lifestyles were funded by dubious means, and I realized I didn't belong.
Disillusioned, I called the shop owner, begging for forgiveness and a chance to return. His kindness prevailed, and he welcomed me back. However, I hadn't changed. My kleptomania resumed, and I grew complacent.
One day, a supplier who frequented the shop promised me a job with higher pay. I was intrigued and began sneaking items to him, believing his promises. When my employer discovered the theft, he was heartbroken. He confronted me, his voice trembling with disappointment. "I trusted you," he said. "But you've left me no choice."
I was asked to leave.
With nowhere else to go, I returned to my so-called brother. Life with him was just as harsh as before, and I found myself spiraling into despair.
Determined to rebuild, I approached a woman we had once supplied pancakes to and asked for work. She agreed, and I began making pancakes for her. But the pay was barely enough to scrape by, and I found myself selling off everything I owned just to survive—my phone, my shoes, even my clothes, and I grew increasingly desperate. In a moment of weakness, I stole her phone and fled. As I left, guilt consumed me, but I told myself it was a necessary evil. I had to return home, in the village.
It had been a year since the tragic accident that had forced me to leave. Time, it seemed, had dulled the memory of my disgrace, and I slipped back into the village unnoticed. I swore to myself that I would change, that the boy who had left was not the man who returned.
Returning home, I felt the weight of my actions pressing down on me. The past clung to me like a shadow, a constant reminder of my failures and the bridges I had burned. Yet, as I stood beneath the vast expanse of the evening sky, I couldn't help but wonder if redemption was still within my reach.
Life had dealt me harsh lessons, but it hadn't broken me completely. The dreams I once held seemed distant, but they still flickered faintly in the depths of my soul. Perhaps this journey—filled with missteps and regrets—wasn't meant to define me but to shape me into someone stronger.
And so, with trembling resolve, I vowed to rise again—not for others, but for myself. The road ahead was uncertain, but I knew one thing for sure: the story of my life was far from over.