David Misiko sat on the worn-out wooden stool outside his mud-walled home, the afternoon sun casting a golden hue on his tired face. His left foot, swollen and tender, rested on a rock as he prepared for what he hoped would be his last jigger digging.
The sharp tip of a rusted safety pin trembled in his calloused fingers. He had done this too many times before, yet each time felt just as excruciating. The jigger, buried deep under his skin, was a stubborn parasite, feeding off his flesh, making each step unbearable.
Misiko inhaled sharply and dug the metal pin into the swollen area, wincing as he prodded the fragile skin. A dull, pulsating pain shot up his leg, but he pressed on. He had to. He couldn’t afford another visit to the local clinic, and waiting any longer would only worsen the infection.
As he scraped around the jigger’s burrow, a thick, yellowish fluid oozed out, a cruel reminder of his suffering. He clenched his jaw, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. Finally, he hooked the tiny, wriggling parasite and pulled it out, its pale body smeared with blood.
He exhaled in relief, tossing the jigger aside. He reached for a bottle of paraffin, dabbing it on the wound, the sting momentarily numbing his senses. He stared at his foot, now free from the relentless torment. Would this really be his last jigger digging?
Misiko knew the truth. As long as poverty remained his reality, the jiggers would always return. But for now, he allowed himself a small victory—a moment of peace before the cycle began again.
