Humanity

Sometimes you have no idea. You know not what part of you is really yours. You are sitting on a chair, beneath the papaya tree in the backyard, watching its leaves wane, turning yellow. You want to save it. You think it is the rain, or the lack thereof that has made the tree sick. You go into the house, fetch a bowl of water, and come back to pour it onto its root, harshly, as if you are dousing a fire. With the hope that tomorrow, the tree would be better and that one day it would finally recover, you go back into the house.

You turn on the television, but then the soap operas being aired are repeated episodes. The television, to you, sounds like a broken stereo. You already know the plot of this movie in your head, offhand. You know what Shalewa in Deceit would say, and what riposte Emeka would offer her. You switch channels repeatedly and then decide later to opt for the news station. You listen thus to the news and as always, the words try to break you, more than they could ever remake you. You hear tales of how many more children need to be found, of how a landlord is learning how to be a refugee, and of how the rich amass wealth through the labours of the poor. You stop struggling with the aerial. The signal could stay forever forlorn if all this TV ever would narrate are stories of people who are no different, or even worse off than you.

You open your fridge and see very little quantity of food, and start to wonder if you would live to see the papaya tree get back to fine fettle. You are hungry, but you shall not eat. You have kept what there is for another day. Instead, you chew on your miseries; matters of the past and the present. You recall your mother’s death. You are reminded of how death visited her eyes, next, her limbs, before it took hold of her soul. You are reminded of how you paid the native doctor all you had saved, just so that his consultation might confirm your belief that your stepmother killed her. Fueled with the consequent hunger and your anger, you realize the futility of your efforts. You are born-again, a catholic man. You had no reason to indulge in pagan rituals, but the knife has sliced through your palms and now you get drunk instead on your resentments.

Next, you remember your ex. You liken her to Shalewa, the heroine of the soap opera you troll on your television—Deceit. Shalewa was deceitful. She lied and cheated and that too, without remorse. Your ex was the same. She bit you where it hurt, and dropped you just when you were heaviest, when you were rolled up like a samosa in the foil paper of grief. Next up in your reminiscence is your inconsiderate employer, the one who fired you because your misery had stolen into your memory. He fired you because you could not evoke your knowledge of chemistry and biology while in the laboratory, and had smashed a cylinder during a panic attack. You know however that he had let you down because he had found a replacement—another recently graduated pharmacologist. Here, you have been taught that humanity weighs nothing in the face of making loads of cash.

Your memory teases you with the scene of that day whence you listened, standing behind a wall, to your neighbours as they spoke ill of your hurting. You heard them say you were acting, pretending like you were the first person to be orphaned. You heard them question if you were the first human to be beaten with the rain of such misfortunes. They have a right to their thoughts, you tell yourself, but that does not stop you from cringing when they say you deserved to be fired. They had said no one needs an indolent man on his team and that you withered away and stopped being promising.

You cry, recalling how these same folks had once perceived you as a man with dignity and grace. You cry, amazed at how easily man’s embrace cracks, throwing you into the cold beyond it. You wish to drown yourself in liquor, to free yourself from this hurting for a while, but you cannot afford even that much.

Then the new neighbour comes knocking lightly at your door. The sound is as nervous as you are. Nobody knocks on your door anymore. Time after time, you didn’t have salt to offer Madam Cecilia, your previous neighbour. She perceived your inability as selfishness and as such, did not bid you goodbye when she packed away, two weeks ago. You pick up what is left of what you were, walk with heavy steps towards the door, turn the knob and open it up. The new neighbour is a lady, you realize. She is stuttering, trying to get words out of her mouth. You are listening absentmindedly. You hear not what she says, but you follow her gesturing hands, and realize that she has brought you something. Inviting her in is your way of showing gratitude. You do not think she would accept to tread through the open doorway, but when she does, you become afraid. You fear that she would think lowly of you if she examines the house’s condition, but you have not the heart to chase her away. When she does enter, however, she makes herself comfy and assumes the role of a host. She sits in an armchair, telling you news you must have missed whilst being cooped up in your house. She urges you to eat what she brought: eko and akara. You are an Ijaw man. You do not eat much Yoruba food, but she knows how to wear out your resolve, so you eat. You like it. Soon you are laughing, and it is warm and sonorous. You do not know this, but she tells you. It has been quite a long while since you laughed. When she leaves, the house is cleaner, better than she met it. You realize just then that you never asked for her name, but from your short encounter with her, you realize that she would not mind. She is a good person, kind enough to notice that all except one neighbour had paid her a welcome visit, and had instead decided to pay a visit to the person in question.

She has taught you thus what the idea of humanity is. She has taught you that humanity lies in giving everyone the benefit of a doubt, without judgment. The act of being humane lies in helping people when they are down, and not trampling upon what is left of a broken man. Being human is great because it teaches someone else how to be a human too. Tomorrow, you would check on the papaya tree, pluck some flowers from your garden, and head over to the neighbour’s house, to say sorry, thank you, and ask for her name.

You sleep late. The memory of her brown, kind, doe-like eyes keeps you awake. Still, they follow you into la la land, glistening in your dreams. Your day did not start up great, but someone’s unexpected kindness has given this day a beautiful climax. Perhaps you might not be able to thank her enough for it, but by being kind to others too, you think she might be happy with you.

Check out stories from our finalists in the Short Story Challenge#1