A BETTER MAN THAN ME (SHORT STORY)

I always considered myself a smart person and part of that smartness involved knowing how to take care of myself from a young age. With that came a lack of empathy for those who were constantly in need. They were certainly doing something or a lot of things wrong, I believed.

Take for instance, Olisa, my first cousin once removed, who called me earlier this week. We were classmates in the university and Olisa was always short of money. I can recall Olisa in his faded blue jeans and equally faded pink T-shirt sitting behind his favourite desk at the last row in class, shoulders hunched. His gaze was often soft and pleading whether he was talking to staff or fellow students. The reason for that was obvious. His financial situation meant that while other students worried about their lectures and assignments, Olisa was usually asking for a link to a job at a construction site or other labourer work. This inevitably led to defaults on purchase of books and other academic necessities as well as missed deadlines for submission of assignments.

Yet, Olisa looked after his maternal grandmother. He sent her a stipend every month and travelled to Asaba often to see her. On one occasion, I saw him buying provisions in the market. It turned out he was buying them for her. I marvelled at his thoughtfulness, and gave him 5 grand to help with his transport fare. (By the way, this grandma of his was a sister to my own grandmother – maternal too – whom I was not even in touch with.)

Olisa never stopped thanking me for that favour and brought it up again as we spoke.

“Pip,” he began, “I’m sorry I haven’t called you since we left school.” (My name is Philip but friends call me Pip). “That day at the New Market, your gift really helped me.”

“Nnaa, I’m sorry I haven’t called you either.” I was only being polite. I had no intention of staying in touch with the likes of Olisa, whom I assumed would still be struggling, as he soon confirmed.

“Life has been rough, particularly in the last five years.” Here we go again, I thought. “I got married during youth service,” he continued.

“You didn’t! Why? How manage?” Apparently, poverty had rotted his brain.

“I wanted my grandmother to have some great-grandchildren since most of her own children died in infancy and my mum, her only surviving child, followed suit after I was born.” Sentiments will always shackle and keep you down, I mused.

“But where did you get money to marry from?”

“My wife is from my village. We didn’t do a big ceremony. I just brought some drinks to her family with a few relatives and paid her bride price. It was one of the best decisions of my life, but taking care of a wife, three children and my grandma has been quite trying.”

I tensed because I was certain he was preparing to make a pitch for financial aid. I tightened my heart because I had better things to do than help those who won’t help themselves. Imagine getting married at 22!

I quickly devised a means to shut him down. Once he finished expanding on his tale of woe, I’d recount a more touching sob story of my own to him. But he didn’t go further in his own account.

“How are you?” he asked. “Are you still into writing?”

I seized the moment and went, “That writing thing was a huge mistake. You won’t believe that since we graduated, I’ve not done any major job like the two I did in school, ghost-writing the autobiographies of those senators.”

Nothing could be further from the truth though. Since I got an agent during youth service, I did at least two major jobs every year, making millions, and other smaller jobs that brought in thousands. Plus, after earning my Master’s a year ago, I secured a coaching spot on an online writing academy the pay from which takes care of my basic expenses.

“So sorry to hear that,” Olisa sympathised with my claimed ill luck. “Have you considered getting a job?”

“Of course, I have,” I replied. “But where are the jobs?”

“I know. I too searched and failed, so I learnt iron bending.” A gasp escaped me. A graduate of English learning a hard labour trade!

“I also opened a shop for my wife. We would have been alright if not for the runaway inflation and the expenses on the kids.”

“Thank God for you. In my own case, I’m thinking of learning how to code. I’ve also tried getting a scholarship to study abroad but nothing has worked. Maybe I’ll join these yahoo boys because the suffering is too much.”

“No!” Olisa shouted. “Don’t you ever do something so desperate and dangerous. You know what, I like the idea of learning to code. How can I help?”

“Help! What do you mean, help?” I asked in astonishment.

“It must cost something to do a course in coding,” he explained. “ I’m willing to contribute.”

“I cannot take any money from you knowing how overburdened you are already.”

“I will not take ‘No’ for an answer,” he insisted. “You were the one whom the class sent money to his account to raise my school fees in our second year, and that day in the market ….”

“It’s alright. Those things were nothing. What you want to do is sacrificial giving.”

“It’s the best kind of giving,” Olisa interjected. “If you’re still using that your First Bank account, I’ll drop something for you there.”

I was in shock.

“Are you?” he asked. I heard some tender voices in the background. He needed to attend to his kids, I guessed.

“Yes I am,” I responded.

“Okay, you will hear from me soon. Take care, my brother. It shall be well.”

I was overwhelmed with wonder. It was just unbelievable that Olisa would make such an offer to me, but then I reasoned it was probably one of those empty promises people make and renege on.

As I sat there mulling over the conversation, I received an alert of 30 grand from Olisa.

“Jesus Christ! This is too much!” I exclaimed.

I felt like an scumbag. I, a comfortable fellow, tricked a relative into sending the money he needed to take care of his family to aid my made-up quest.

I realised that Olisa was a better man than me, a man willing to render help in spite of his hardships.

I decided that I would call Olisa back and triple his gift to me. But on second thoughts, I decided to visit him and his family at their home in Ogbunike to deliver the gift, along with 12 yards of Ankara material for them to sew a family uniform. I would add six yards of Dutch Wax fabric for his grandma whom he had moved from Asaba to live with his family. And I vowed to maintain contact and build a meaningful relationship with them.

This is all going to be a surprise to Olisa whom I have merely told I’m coming to explore a job prospect but would visit him around noon.

That is actually where I’m preparing to go this Friday morning from my home in Enugu and, to be honest, the shock I received from Olisa’s generosity is yet to wear off.

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