To Sink into the Deep

I Can Always Buy More Egusi

I’m not even sure how the garri and egusi soup got stolen. All I had done was bending to pick up my phone from where it had fallen to the ground. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything, not scuffling, not running feet and not even the crinkle of the nylon that the food was in that had danced with the wind past me.

The three wraps of garri atop the take-away pack of egusi with goat meat (*drools*) was just no longer on top of my car bonnet. But, a large oil stain was. And there was another bright red oil stain in front of my car, and to its left was another and another and another; a trail.

Thank God for Yoruba cooks and their excessive palm oil usage.

Walking a little further, I noticed the oil seemed to be going towards a set of stooped rod-shod shacks right next to the huge restaurant separated only by a low wall with iron bars on top. I looked around to see if anyone might have seen the thief but it was only past eight in the morning and the security around looked nonchalant.

It was obvious why my food was stolen but just in case you can’t tell, I’ll tell you: poverty.

To be honest, I still do not know what came over me, whether it was a sense of voyeurism wearing a mask of curiosity or just that plain old silly little thing called impulse. There these people were, visible between the gaps in the just-knocked-together wood and here I was, earning in dollars, just waltzing through their living areas for no tangible reason whatsoever.

The deciding factor I suppose is my mantra to never end a day with ‘what-if-i-did’ thought. I’d rather have regret over action than inaction. (So, it’s an actual word).

Matter-of-factly, I would have forever wondered what would happen if I had followed the palm oil.

So, I did.

I kept my eyes to the ground, partially to follow the trail and partly to avoid looking at the people. I must have been an odd sight; the calls of ‘yellow paw-paw wetin you dey do for hia’ were unnecessary. It’s not every day that a young lady with dreads and a navy-blue pantsuit (with small pockets which were to blame for the whole situation) walked through those parts. (God, ‘those parts’? seriously?)

I nearly collided with a huge carton in trying to focus on the trail which stopped soon after.

The shack it stopped in front of had strings with beads and a threadbare cloth behind it for a doorway. I crept to the side, and (Lord forgive me) peeped through one of the wooden gaps in the just-knocked-this-together wood.

Even the sunlight coming from the other side wanted me to focus on the mattress at one side of the shack.

On it was a man, speaking, his white teeth a contrast to his very dark skin, his back against the wall. Beside him was a woman whose only visible part was her very pregnant belly. They had the pack across their laps with the wraps of garri in front of them.

As I watched them eat, an assortment of emotions which I sensed but could not pick out to give specific names.  Slight chills ran from the top of my head to my back. I could feel a tear forming at the base of my left eye, causing a slight ache at the back of it.

And then, my body did something my conscious mind hardly even registered; I put my hand into my suit pocket, took out my wallet, removed all the money in it and pushed it through a gap in the wall.

Then I ran away. (Quite undignifiedly I might add.)

I didn’t turn back even when a voice joined by other voices yelled that I should. Going to bed with this what-if-I-did won’t kill me.

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This was inspired in part by the above tweet. And the other part came from a true story my pastor told the congregation.

The fact that there are people who are so hungry that they steal has pushed me to be grateful to God and just grateful in general.

What makes you grateful?

Thank you very much for reading this!

- KC