Unholy Theft

London, the vibrant and sprawling metropolis, has long captured the hearts of both locals and visitors alike. Its rich history, diverse culture, and architectural marvels make it a city of unparalleled beauty and charm. As one strolls along the banks of the River Thames, they are greeted by iconic landmarks like the Tower Bridge and the majestic Buckingham Palace, casting a spell of awe and wonder. The bustling streets are adorned with a tapestry of colours, resonating with the harmonious blend of cultures that call this city home. A melting pot of cultures, celebrates diversity in every facet of its existence. From the vibrant festivals in Notting Hill to the culinary delights of Brick Lane, the city’s neighbourhoods pulsate with the rhythms of different traditions and flavours. One can lose themselves in the mesmerizing galleries of the Tate Modern or find solace in the serene gardens of Hyde Park, where nature and tranquillity offer respite from the frenetic pace of urban life. London...What a fucking joke.. And now while I look through this window, through this shattered city. I remember my hometown, Newham, I remember the suffering through its people, the shadows of poverty and neglect, constantly yearning for a life of luxury and freedom. Every street corner whispers tales of deprivation, their residents mired in a daily battle for survival. The burden of financial constraints restricts their aspirations, shackling their potential beneath the weight of economic disparity. In the shadowed alleyways, we hear the voices of forgotten dreams, suppressed ambitions, and shattered expectations. Among the most poignant victims of Newham’s hardships are its children. Born into a world where poverty is their only inheritance, they face a treacherous journey from the very beginning. Dilapidated schools, overcrowded classrooms, and scarce resources stifle their educational prospects, sealing their fate as casualties of an unequal society. With each passing day, their innocence becomes tainted, their dreams crushed beneath the weight of limited opportunities. I remember myself when I was just a kid, I was just eight years old, I keep thanking god that I was an lonely child, the burden of my parents to support another mouth was unbearable for me, we were living on scratch, we had nothing but my dad’s job in the old museum that it hasn’t always been enough. Between the unpaid rent and the winter’s cold that’s enveloping the house, seeping into our bones. I can hear the bells of the old church from far away, creating a symphony of sound that echoed across the neighbourhood, which was once filled the air of Newham, now their melancholic chorus silenced by the passage of years. I remember my first day at the church, it was autumn, September something 1991 I was eight years old. I remembered as if it’s yesterday. It was a sunday morning, and my mother made me wore a white button-up shirt, it was tight, it had my initials(A.F). I didn’t like it. Till this day i still don’t understand why people gather up to thank someone who failed them more than once. Yeah I wasn’t the most religious boy out there yet my parents made me be part of this. They thought by praying every week it will spread peace and wealth to this ungrateful world, yet Jesus failed them nonetheless. while I was entering the church, all I could see was Its fading beauty and crumbling structure speak volumes about the erosion of hope, the loss of faith, and the haunting emptiness that pervades these forgotten walls. Among every corner of the church, a captivating painting centred in the ceiling caught my attention, it was different, and I couldn’t not look at it. My dad saw me staring at the ceiling, and he noticed the painting above us. While were getting out, I asked my dad about it, he was a painter back in his days and he was the best, he can make you the realest portrait and most importantly he can replicate the world’s famous paintings and you wouldn’t tell the difference. So I asked him about the painting in the church and he said:” Oh my dear Alex, that’s not a real painting, it’s just a copy, the original was lost centuries ago and no one knows what happened to it, historians claimed that the one and only Leonardo da Vinci is the one who painted it but no one knows the absolute truth.” “Does it have a name?“. My dad replied:” Yes, it's called the 'Salvator mundi' ”.