What a hell it was, I was trudging through it.
The clothes I was wearing were shackles. My long polka khimar was strangling me, my skirt was making me trip, forcing me to walk slowly. I internally cursed the culture that forces me to dress like this, but I have no energy left to continue rebelling, now I just comply.
The sun was scorching mercilessly, determined to curdle my brain. I could feel the restraint I have on my emotions slipping away, my anger- which I've mastered tucking in- has broken to the surface, seething visibly through my red teary eyes. An irksome lump of vexation and frustration has strangulated my throat, threatening to burst out in a hysterical scream. It took all my strength to bottle it all in, knowing it's only a matter of time before I snap and become a lunatic.
What a hell it was!
Generators were roaring like beasts, cars were screeching and blasting their horns as if they're monsters hungry to devour pedestrians and charge at each other, the atmosphere was emanating lethal impatience.
The whole cacophony was driving me crazy.
With every step I took, I felt the scalding heat penetrating my skin. I lifted my hand and looked at my fingers, they were browner than when I left home this morning. I was getting cooked. I was a stack of wandering meat getting roasted.
Except I am not in hell (not yet). This isn't hell, this is Yola, in the Savannah belt of Nigeria.
I wasn't sure who or what exactly I'm angry at, I want an entity I could direct all my accusations at, I am tired of blaming God, the people are barely an entity. I ended up pinning everything on the universe. Yes, the universe. Isn't everything her doing? This chaos, this abyss of abject havoc, this discordance is all her doing. Everything in her is in disarray. Her wind is howling, her seas are raging, her soil; this reliable land that is supposed to be stable is now quaking and rumbling in most parts of the world. Even things we think are placid, like the lake, are full of undiscovered terror yet to be awakened. What's stable on this giant planet of ours anymore?
I walked past people going about their businesses. I try not to look at them or think about them, but I can't stop my eyes nor my mind.
It is hell, and I am one devil trying to guess what sin these people committed to be here.
There's a suya vendor trying to start a fire on his giant drum cooker. How he managed this feat at a temperature of above 40 degree Celsius is a marvel. What lack, what desperation, what foolish resilience would make a man stay committed to this dreadful business? His name is Garba, we call him Garba Mai Nama, I've known him all my life, his makeshift shed has stood in our street for roughly 20 years. Nothing has changed in his lifestyle, his business is that of a man who wakes up every single morning to toil with barely nothing to show for it until his last sleep. He doesn't have a flashy car- or even a non-flashy car for that matter, I doubt he has a house of his own. All the turnover of his business goes to feeding himself and his family. To what end? To what end Garba? I kept repeating as I passed him. I stopped greeting him years ago, unless we are in close proximity. Yet in his eyes, I know I'll always be that kid sent to him to collect a debt of 200 Naira meat every day, a debt which is promised to be paid when my father gets his monthly salary.
In a way, Garba has contributed to nourishing this flesh in my body, yet he is now no better than a stranger I pass on the street. What amusing ingrates us humans are, we are all interconnected, our survival depends on each other, yet we walk with our heads held high, unable to accord each other the slightest recognition nor appreciation. And I had the sense to point an accusing finger at the universe for our bedlam, when we couldn't even uphold order within ourselves. My hypocrisy was jeering, which only added to my vexation. I zoomed in my attention on another passer-by to snuff out the thought of Garba.
I passed an old man wheeling yam for sale, he's a heap of steak almost done, already roasted and nearly dying. I wondered how many children he had, how many daughters he married off, and how many sons he had. Are they hopeless and indifferent and rendered unproductive or are they rambunctious and raging and terrorizing everyone around them for the injustice of the world?
Did the old man marry another young wife recently, as is the custom of poor men who could hardly sustain themselves in the hopes that children can unlock wealth for them? Does she have young children suckling at her breast, groveling in the dirt and gutter around her shoeless feet? What is she trying to salvage for lunch now? I imagine her trying to water her corn with her salty tears because in this hell, rain is a rarity that we only get when the weather feels like being benevolent, and even that sometimes comes in a violent torrent that floods away soft roots- out of spite, I believe.
The old man walked past me with his barrow of yam. He's degenerating from exhaustion, still I admire the sheer tenacity he draws from God knows where, to pull the load before him with every step he takes. He has surrendered to his fate long ago that he could barely complain or dream of being better than he is now. To this man, there's no end to his suffering, there's no salvation in this life, all that's left for him to believe is that he might make it to Eden when he dies. That at least is enough hope for him to live whatever form of virtuous life his religion stipulates.
I wondered how many yams he could sell today?
Maybe he isn't married and if so, his yams could sustain him. I thought, that's alright, he could sell maybe 5 tubers and stash his savings then use his profits to feed today, tomorrow he will get up and wheel his tubers around this scorching hell and do it all over again, day after day until he drops dead in this cauldron.
But if he has a family... I shuddered at both the thought, and his stench as we walked past each other.
Every man I passed has a story, I could only guess so much. I am aware even my best guess could not come close to their realities.
Garba, the old yam seller and many of the other men I passed seemed to be wallowing in generational poverty, and somewhere in a street not far away from ours, there was another group bathing in generational wealth. There are no pedestrians on their clean streets, only smooth cars that hum gracefully along leafy and serene avenues lined on both sides by swank residences. Their buildings only emit a majestic silent purr of cool air conditioning, in contrast to our jeering rumblings of generators.
I could never wrap my head around the blatant inequality around the world, the imbalance between two groups of people in different contexts; the poor and the wealthy, the sick and the healthy, the decent and the degenerate, the masses and the rulers, all coexisting. It would make more sense to me if the world is square where each group would have an angle of their own instead of this juxtaposition jumbled in a circle. But oh well, the universe - or whoever runs it - has a sick sense of humour, so here we are.
I walked past The Forest, a commercial garden. There were young plants bedded in black polythene bags, I don't fancy myself much of an environmentalist but I couldn't help a shudder of discomfort at the sight of the non-decomposable polythene half eaten by the soil. Poor mother earth, she couldn't digest them, they would remain in her belly as impurities upsetting her for hundreds of years to come. I almost apologized to the soil for the way we derogate her. I wished I could hug her in appreciation for her untiring patience and generosity, alas I could only walk upon her, ingrate that I am. The plant beds were carelessly piled one upon another, as if a giant shovel had scooped them from where they were first orderly planted and heedlessly dumped them here. Despite that, the plants were green and thriving, as if no amount of man's imprudence could stop them from growing where there's sand and water. I envy benign tenacity, at the same time I pity them for wasting it on unworthy beings.
I walked past them in commiseration. But then I stopped suddenly in my tracks. It was as if the plants had latched onto that drop of compassion in my heart and forced my feet to brake.
It was only in that moment of stillness that I noticed the change of atmosphere around me, the forest is moist and cool, the trees, although sparse, have managed to cast a shade against the sun. I retracted my steps and stood right by the haphazard flower beds, I looked at them so hard until the tint of red that was obscuring my vision earlier slowly turned green.
I stood there motionless, feeling like I was a burning ember of coal placed in a spring. My ears let out a buzz-like emission, as if the cacophony my body had absorbed earlier was escaping.
I didn't notice the lump of irritation in my voice had melted away until a sob escaped my trembling lips, warm briny tears trickled down my sun scorched cheeks, I let them flow unrestrained, washing away the anger that had reddened my eyes a moment ago.
I wept, loud ugly sobs until my body convulsed and my chest felt light.
I wept for man's heedless follies, I wept for man's malicious misanthropy, I wept for man's ignoble hauteur, I wept for man's insatiable avarice that knows no gratitude. I wept for all the innocence corrupted, I wept for the altruistic taken advantage, I wept for all our sins as if I am begging the plants for atonement.
My eyes caught a figure standing a few feet away from me, I turned towards him. Concern and sympathy was written all over his face, he's standing as if he couldn't make up his mind to leave me or approach me. I assembled what I hoped could be a welcoming smile on my face, signaling that it's okay for him to approach.
He walked with the meticulousness of an old man getting used to the feebleness of his bones, determined not to use a walking stick. His face was coated by gray hair and radiating kindness. The sand on his rubber knee length boot told he is a gardener here.
He stood silently beside me, he didn't have to touch me for me to feel the comfort oozing out of his aura.
We stood like that for a long while, silent and staring at the flower beds.
With every breath I exhale, the restlessness of my soul was let out, with every inhalation, I took in peace. It was the most tranquil I've ever felt in years.
The tangled string of thoughts in my head slowly weaved themselves into a pattern, a clarity.
Suddenly I could see the order in the chaos.
I sighed, out of nowhere I heard the words come out along with it.
"Father forgive me, for I have sinned".
The old man chuckled.