***Saving
Mama***
Today, Mama's health condition worsened
drastically, and the doctor threatened, despite my tears, to abandon mama and
let her die if i don't find a way to fetch her food. You see, the treatment
wouldn't work, because she hadn't eaten for days. There is no food at home, no
money either. Sometimes, she falls when she stands, and cries like a baby, when
the doctor's injections come rushing down her veins. It's painful! Risikat, my
younger sister, is a lorry-load of pain. I've seen her cry, countless times,
because of Mama's state. Sometimes, she'd kneel before Mama, and tear her own
clothe open, and bring out her little breast, and tell her to "suck and
live," hoping to feed Mama with breastmilk.
But she is only five years old, and hasn't
eaten for days either. So no breastmilk comes out... And that makes her cry.
Sometimes, Lagos is a city. But most times, it's a battlefield! I got tired of
the war at home and i raced to the market for help. I had a little bowl, no
larger than a baby's head, and i walked from table to table...begging for food;
begging for love. I thought they'd understand, by looking at my face, how much
I've been through, and how my mother's life depends on how much food i go back
home with. I told them of how Papa had died two years ago; but no one cared.
They talked about recession, and of problems
here and there. None spared a drop, none stooped to give. No one! People are
hesitant to help the poor...they'd watch you fall and crawl, weeping for help,
and refuse to help. But the very rich get all the favours in the world, without
even asking. I thought Tunde's mother would help me out with a cup of garri
from her table. She refused. I stole a handful and ran away...I thought she
would forgive! It makes me cry, when i see people who are cheerful givers, only
when they wish to hurt. I mean, the vulcanizer who had refused to give me
little money to buy food for Mama suddenly donated a tyre worth thousands of
naira, for the mob to burn me with. Mama Tunde suddenly forgot about recession
and donated a litre of petrol for them to burn me with. Everybody is donating
matchsticks, and i'm wondering: Why this generosity? Why is the recession
suddenly over? Why were they stingy until now? See, I'm not saying it's okay to
steal. I'm saying it is okay to forgive. I'm saying a little kindness would
have gone a long way. I'm not scared of death, or the mob anymore. I'm scared
of those that live as though they are already dead - heartless, merciless. I am
scared of people who act as if they are sacrosanct and unbiased. To my
murderers, i ask: if at home, you discover that your son, or brother, or nephew
stole a handful of garri from the storeroom, will you kill him? Will you shout
at the top of your voice till the whole neighborhood gathers about him? Why not
just scold me... And let me live? Tell Risikat that I couldn't save us. Tell
her to gather my ashes when I am done burning...But never tell Mama that the
handful of garri that revived her had been gotten in exchange for my life. Tell
God I'm dead, and, I was killed by men meaner than the devil himself! Tell
Lagos: I came, I saw, and I conquered...som ehow! Tell yourself that I'm gone,
forget that I ever lived! Tell me goodbye...say no more. That'll be enough for
my lifeless bones...
SAVE A SOUL BY PASSING IT ON THAT LITTLE BOY
IS STRONGER THAN THE HERCULES YOU KNOW
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