My hell memories of Chibuku days

Born in the shebeen, me and my sibblings early graduated into running the business for our single mother. We leant to run after the chibuku trucks with wheel-burrows, to buy stock. We knew the chibuku truck bellows so well we could tell it was coming even when we were deep in our sleep. Even when the mother was away for months we kept the fire burning with the tradition of buying and selling as primary school kids.

There was nothing we could do, we were born into it. My sister actually started drinking the same chibuku we were supposed to be selling. I remember one day she was caught dead drunk, and yet she pretended to be sober. I liked the fresh ones, the not so fermented, because it tasted sweet. I would be tempted to  steal from several cartoons and later claim to the chibuku truckman that these were damages.