On Gratitude: A Second Chance at Life

 

Photo Credit: Available Psychologists

This is my last blogpost for the year. I still can't believe it has come to an end. Even more, I still can't believe that I have written consistently every month. It means that I have made 12 Blogposts this year, even if it meant publishing twice in other months to cover up the lapse of previous months. It feels so damn good!  I am so proud of myself. In fact, I started this post to brag about my Discipline and Consistency, my greatest achievement this year. After all, I have my graduation and good grades to prove it—regardless of the numerous mistakes in my result. Till I remembered the actual greatest achievement of my year. Life. And here, my story begins. 

It was a cool evening in school. The weather looked nothing like what was about to happen. I was at the onset of exams. My flesh was missing in all the right and wrong places and I was beginning to look like a specimen that lost its way to the Anatomy laboratory. In between books, I thought I needed to do something about it. More like, I needed a distraction. I could barely get the next word into my head. How does a nerd get distracted? Usually, I get distracted by books. This is why instead of cooking, I decided to go satisfy a craving. Mini rewards I gift myself. The best part of the decision was that I get to indulge in my second favorite pastime (after reading): walking.  A break. A stroll. Good food. Three birds. One stone. How clever of me! Or so I thought. 

 

Photo Credit:  Alondra Lucia

I live in school. The plan was simple: walk to the outskirts of the school which hosts the rest of the student community and our small market (we call it Ifite). Buy what I want. Hopefully, be spent (not financially, I assure you). Find a ride back.  If you forgive the price hike and the other little things you may not find, the market is not usually that bad. But it was bad that evening. I could not forgive the price or the little things that I could not find. It started with my parfait. Is it too much for a girl to ask? That she satisfies her craving in peace? With her dignity in tact? I was not even asking for too much. Just that they give it to me at the same price I bought it the week before. Or at least, only a little above the price. Instead, those mean people said I can only get it at twice the price I usually pay. What do you mean by unknown gun men when I can see the face of this gun man? He only forgot his gun at home. A robbery all the same. Since I had nothing to do the naira dollar flux, I picked up the last dregs of my dignity and made to leave. Very wicked man, I tell you. He did not even call me back. So I accepted my parfait-less fate and walked out of his shop. After all,  I am not the first person to be broke. 

I left to find my other option, which now I think about it, should have been my first. Cakes! Maybe if it were, the shop would have still been open. The irony was not lost on me. Other stalls were fast closing too. A clear evidence that day was making way for the night. The beginnings of the night life had begun to take shape and I was starting to look out of place. I was no longer as excited as I was. In fact, just the opposite. I had begun to think that this may have been a bad idea. I could have just cooked. Instead, here I was spiraling down, getting depleted…spent. Don’t get me wrong. Ifite never lacks food. It is the opposite. Food is one of their most buoyant businesses. Man must chop after all. The closing of day stalls opened the night ones. They come in different sizes for different pockets. I looked around and nothing called to me. Not even the small stall that matched my pocket size. 

Photo Credit: Will Echols

You see, the rules in my house are unspoken and unwritten. And breaking one was close enough to committing a crime. There was no crime more heinous than buying out. If my father happens to be the judge he will sentence you to life imprisonment on a good day. Death, on a bad one. Now, now, don’t ask me why. I won’t know which to start with: their hygiene issue or my trust issue. So I will just tell you we are conservative like that. And that me, a proud daughter of my household, has—in the six years I spent as an undergraduate—not eaten out up to ten times. No explanation. The rule just stuck. I grew up with it, after all. It explains why I am stuck in the dark, weighing my options and thinking that the noodles in my room made better sense. I could not afford to be indecisive for much longer. So I settled for fruits, the one option that never fails me. At this time, I should have known the universe had gathered its galaxies and planets to have a fun time. I should have known when they conspired and betted against us. Perhaps against me if I count my luck that evening. Instead, I walked casually to the banana seller, eyeing her barrowful of bananas and thankful that I look nothing like my account balance. Then, the game of chance began. The banana seller was there one second and the next she wasn’t. Don't ask me what happened. I didn't know until the end. They ran. I ran.  I didn't understand the gravity of the situation until the second shot rang into the air. My insides melted. Hot liquid fear shot through my veins. My heart generously pumped it to the rest of my body. It came out in short breaths. I still had enough in me for the entire market. I wish I had taken my inter-house sports rehearsals more seriously. Kept fit, at the very least. My entire life would not have depended on a short pair of leg that seemed eager to give up on me any second. I would have been more confident in my survival skills. I marvel at how fast the body works. How quickly it responds to adrenaline. By the time I did a quick maths. I found myself under a table. It must have belonged to a not-so-clean daytime tomato seller. It reeked of rotten tomatoes. I didn’t mind. There were other more pressing problems. I decided to bid my time and wait out the chaos. 

Photo Credit: Melanie Wasser

This must have been what Noah’s people felt waiting in the Ark, aware of the world flooding around them. The stampede. A blur of legs as they flashed past. I prayed. I confessed all my sins and spilled all my secrets. I forgave all my enemies and dedicated this life and the next to God, if only he will save me this once. My hiding spot was far from perfect. While I was not easily visible to a searching eyes, I was not safe from stray bullets. I imagined the headlines: “young undergraduate killed by a stray bullet.” “Found shot under a tomato table the next morning.” I prayed even harder. A game of chance, indeed. 

Very much unlike Noah’s Ark, I had no dove to help me check if the area was safe enough. So I let the mosquitoes indulge me in a long serious conversation. The sandflies joined later. They are not good people. It soon became a toxic relationship. I was happy to be out of it when I began to hear movement. I intentionally skipped the part of how I waited a little longer to be sure I was not witnessing a kidnapper negotiation. If I tell you, you will say I watch too many films, but that was exactly what this scene seemed like—plucked right out of a movie plot. I pulled myself out, picking up the last bits of my dignity and strands of ego (the little I took with me out of the parfait shop). I let the ones that couldn't be salvaged be. What did I care if I had dust and sand on my hair? What did it matter if I reeked of tomato and had itching sores on me?  I am flesh. I am blood. It was enough for me. I can get greedy later. 

Photo Credit: Gabrielle Henderson

I looked around me. Life was continuing, fast. People were moving on. And I intended not to be left behind. I moved along. Soon, this scene will be forgotten. No one will remember the emptiness of the streets or the fear in their hearts. But I will remember. It will live rent-free in my head. I didn’t bother looking for banana seller again. Neither did I bother with dinner. I barely heard my roommates’ greetings. I laid in bed that night, listening to the darkness, wondering what a forever in it would look like. It didn’t make a good bedtime memory so I focused on the regular beating of my heart, the most melodious music I have ever heard. 

I shall hear about it the next day. A fairy tale told for children, with different variations to suit different audience. One said that they were cultists avenging a gang member. Another said they were robbers carrying out an operation. Others said it was the vigilante shooting at them. Weeks later, I shall hear it was a scare. Till I heard nothing again. The later tales were harder to believe. Somehow, the image of a proud owner of a gun shooting into the air to show off his newest addition didn’t fit in. But everyone was moving on. I didn’t want to seem traumatized so I moved along. I think about it sometimes when I go out for my evening strolls. I remember it in the silence of the nights. Most times, just before I sleep. Then, I will count my sins, draw my secrets closer and listen to the steady beating of my heart. Grateful for this second chance. A million little miracles. 

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!