Because of the Boy they Burnt in Lagos

***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