Skip to main content

A MIRROR OF HOPE

You forcefully open the double doors to your room to see your reflection in the large spotless mirror staring at you, as you try to avoid the Master. Your image kills the mustard seed of hope you have been trying to nurture – your eyes exhausted from too many tears. Your lips are chapped, and the glory of your skin is in the past - your beautiful skin as your mother would remark. You wonder if it’s because of its fairness or the hairless sight of it, or the chubby feeling when touched. And then you reckon the eyes of your mother are not yours. Your beauty lies in your freedom, you think to yourself. You affirm that you don’t belong here, not in this castle with grey walls, lofty ceilings, and heavy brown curtains. Not viewing ancient paintings of wars. Not on a bed for a crowd and certainly not wearing these expensive clothes too pure to smear. You recall the first day of your arrival at your new home. You were greeted by a servant who avoided your eyes as he bowed his head and sai...
2 comments

THE EGYPTIAN OR ME?





THE EGYPTIAN OR ME?

On my way back from a lucky-less interview I met an Egyptian man asking for directions to a pot shop close by. He had on this sorry look like a man who had just lost his job. When I think of it now, I think it was because I thought we shared a mutual feeling that was why I even stopped to listen to him.
“I look for pot shop close here. You know?” He asked.
At first I could hardly understand him until I noticed he was holding a photo of the pot shop in his hands. I pointed towards the direction, telling him the easiest way to get there. Suddenly, this short movie became annoying when this sun-tanned chubby looking man asked for my almost-emptied bottle of water. That bottle of water was my first meal, friend and companion after my horrific interview- an interview that I was made to wait for hours only to be told that the boss had traveled and won’t be back any time soon. That bottle of water helped me hide my tears as I drank it while I struggled with my thoughts of how I would survive through the month and there was this foreigner asking for it.
“No! I want to drink it so I can’t give it to you.” I said to him.
And this was what this man had to say to me: 
“Egypt good. Nigeria no good. I test you to give me water. You say no. you, you no good at all. No like you. I only test you and you fail.”

As he walked away, I just stood there watching him. He looked worse than I did; tired and disappointed. I couldn’t tell if his meeting me even heightened his current state. I could only tell that he hated my country maybe even more than I did. Was I really as bad as my country? Was I without compassion for the man? It was just water after all and I could not even share it or give it out rightly. Why would he use water as a test? He must have not gotten over the parting of the Red Sea. Yet, I felt bad for allowing my pains take over my compassion, for treating another with such inequity whether I was being tested or not.

I walked home consoling myself with the fact that the man’s dentition needed immediate deliverance. Only Jesus would share a bottle of water with such a person. “If I ever visit Egypt. I will surely not share a bottle with anyone, I thought.” However, the truth of the issue is that our country really makes us who we are. Whether the Egyptian was right or not, deep down I know that nothing should make me behave less of a human being but as hard as I try, my country just wants to pull me down with it. It especially tampers with my goodwill. I am afraid that I will lose it.
A Shared Experience.

Comments

  1. Unknown15 September 2019 at 08:36

    Interesting write up very educative and inspiring.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous15 September 2019 at 09:30

    Very true. Sometimes we let the state of this country get to us so much that we lose empathy

    ReplyDelete
  3. EMMAWAD18 September 2019 at 15:14

    Well said...

    ReplyDelete
  4. Unknown23 January 2020 at 04:31

    Interesting! This mood thing ehnnn....both the Egyptian and the Nigerian, in such, everyone is a victim of it jaare!!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Rukeiyahh1 March 2020 at 00:26

    Nice one!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

In those days, when it rained we would stay by the window and watch how the trees danced to the beats of the wind, the singing of raindrops and thunder. The lighter the music, the closer our legs would get to the door post, quietly watching the eyes of our mother; and waiting for an approval. When she wiggled her legs, it was a negative signal. But when she praised the beautiful works of God in the rainy moment, it was a positive sign. Note, there was no going outside when it rained in the night. That was why Joseph composed the song: Rain visit us when the sun is not old Rain sing for us when the moon is not young So that mother will open the door for us to play with you So that papa will come home dry and happy. Rain visit us as we sing to you. Rain oh rain oh rain. That particular day, the rain was deaf to our singing, or calling and yelling. We became frustrated because the sun was kissing the lines of the sea, workers were returning home while livestock owners were gathering their...
5 comments
Read more

MAKEOVER

  When she realized her hair was gone, the barber had increased the volume of his radio and India Arie’s ‘I am not my hair’ filled the room. ‘If I can manage the situation like a professional, my construction contract with her father will hold tomorrow,’ I thought. I breathe in and out, a logic that never works for me, but I do it anyway. I rehearse my words, changing each sound to a softer version of the previous one - aligning my looks to the words so that my eyes become half closed and there is a faint smile on my face. I wait for the explosion. All the while, the barber is busy touching what is left on her head with his clipper. He says it is the final addition and calls it the moon look. He fumbles with the chair, turning Stella from left to right like a child’s play. The large mirror in front of us escalates the mishap and the fumes on my girlfriend’s face seem to be burning the white walls. It was meant to be a makeover since her 25 th birthday was the next day. Now it...
4 comments
Read more

IF HAIRS COULD TALK

  “You know, I get nervous by the sight of unkempt hair” “And why’s that?” “Well, it makes me imagine the worst of the man or woman in question.” “But you can’t always have clean cut or well-made hair. It’s hard work and who has time for such beauty strife. Or why do you think Beyonce sang that beauty hurts?” “I’m not talking about beauty. Rather I mean responsibility. Bad hair must surely birth a bad day. Look, I hate seeing my wife without her hair done or at least covered. I blame it on Medusa. Should have never seen that movie, T he Clash of the Titans .” “Hahaha, that’s just cracking! Now you blame your sick theory on a movie? Buddy, your wife must be tolerating a whole lot of shit from you. Cut her some slack and leave her hair alone. If you continue shaving yours all the time, you’d be bald before you’re even 40, man.” I’ve been thinking. A thousand tongues there would be if our hairs could talk. Imagine, a million heads would have a zillion tongues and more! The...
2 comments
Read more