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©2022 by Oremodu Bukky

Brought to you by Christian Writers and Readers Club.

     
        Theme: The Prodigal Child

***
I stand at the curb, waiting for the bus to arrive. It was a bus going to Agbado, from Oshodi. Soon it pulls up and I enter. Being the first in line, I had the opportunity of getting a window seat. I settle in and place my earpiece in my ear, bobbing my head as I listen to my favorite song.
The seat beside me dips and I look up to see an elderly man flash me a yellowed-tooth smile. I give a tiny smile and bend my head in respect.

“Good morning, my dear. How are you doing this fine morning?”
I do a double take and scrutinize him. His clothes hang off his thin frame, faded and rumpled, almost as if he’d inherited them from his grandfather in the 50s. His shoes were worn out, begging for relief and his eyes were sunken yet lively, his lips thin but curved into a smile.

Surprised that his spoken English was even better than mine, I opened my mouth to respond but no words came out.
He laughs at this. “I understand.”
I smile a little and was about to press play on my phone when I hear him ask,
“How are you?”
My thumb hovers over my device.
“Excuse me?”
“How are you?”
I look at him, disturbed, before looking away.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m asking you such a question.”
I give no response, so he continues.
“I’ve noticed no one asks out of care, rather, out of compulsion. So I would like to know, how are you doing?”
I’m tired. Very tired.
I want to say, but it can’t escape my lips.
So, I don’t give a reply. Instead, I look out the window as gala sellers jostle against one another, pushing their goods into my face.
“Auntie, buy my own. If you eat this one, una no go chop anoda one again.”
“No, auntie. Na dis one is the original gala.”
I let my face remain stoic, till one after the other they leave me and move to the next passenger sitting beside the window.
Soon, our journey starts, and the man hums a song to himself. Tears fill my eyes as I identify the song as Amazing Grace, but I blink them back.
What is wrong with me? It must be my period that’s causing the show of all these hormones.
Fiddling with my phone, I allow my mind to travel back in time.
Back when I could see Mama bending over the frying pan, balls of Akara turning a golden brown as we prepared for the return of primary schoolers at noon.
Her hands, weary and weathered, use the spoon to flip the balls over, while I squat and use a raffia fan to pump air into the cackling coals. The smoke billows towards our eyes, stinging them.
I blink and look away, but Mama continues to stare at it.
“Mama, it’s not good for your eyes.” I reiterate what the doctor said two weeks ago, but she pays me no attention. Partly because we both know she needs to see what she’s doing and partly because we know there’s nothing we can do about her deteriorating eyesight.
“You’re the one to look away, Shalewa. You’re still in need of your eyes.”
I say nothing, recognizing Mama’s sacrifice.
“Would you like some chips?”
The voice of the elderly man breaks me out of my reverie.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak for fear that I would break into tears.
The man says nothing and pockets the chips, but his weathered hands make memories of Mama resurface. Pushing back the thoughts this time, I sigh and gaze at the woman standing at the front of the bus advertising her wares. Something about mustard seeds and how they can cure hatred.
“You seem to carry a heavy burden, young girl.”
“Leave me alone, please.” I finally burst out, unable to fathom why this old man was taking interest in me.
“I’m sorry, dear.” He says and looks straight ahead.
Remorse bubbles up from within me and I let out another sigh.
“You don’t need to be sorry, Sir. I’m the one that should apologize for my attitude towards you.”
At first, he says nothing, but then his lips curve into a smile and he glances at me. “It’s okay. I understand how much life can batter one.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“Life hasn’t just battered me, Sir. It has broken me down completely.”
It has wrung me out, squeezing every bit of hope from me as one does to a towel after washing it.
“Do you mind sharing?” He asks.
When I don’t respond after a few minutes, he goes on to say, “I’ll go first then. I hope my story will encourage you to share yours.” He pauses and then continues. “I had a family, and everything was going well. But I started becoming engrossed with my work and was neglecting my family. In my quest for wealth and success, I forgot the thing that mattered most. It was after I lost my family that I realized their value in my life. Every day I regret it, but one thing that humans wish for with all of their heart yet can’t have is to reverse the hands of time.”
I glance at him, seeing the shadow of pain cross his face.
“Zoe.” He says in a quiet voice. “The name of my little girl.”
“What about now?”
“I’m a missionary now. I move from place to place, telling others about Jesus. I’m happy as Christ gave my life meaning, but my only regret is losing my family. I would have loved to reconnect, but I’m sure they would have moved on and wouldn’t want me to interfere with their lives.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I say, unsure of the answer to give.
He waves me off, his smile reappearing. “I’ll soon be alighting, dear. In as much as life is tough, God is always there to see you through. That is why I move from place to place, telling others about the Saviour who put the pieces of my life back together. If He can do it for me, then He can do the same for you.”