Owó
Money, Money
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Dear Bolu,
It’s another Saturday morning in this siloed city. Aishat isn’t home and my guess is she spent the night with her man or one of her boyfriends. I let myself in to begin my routine of cooking, laundry, and cleaning this mess of a place. I’m not complaining—it’s simply a mess. It seems people who stay alone tend to have messier houses because perhaps they’re the only ones living in their mess. Just as the farter is never inconvenienced by their fart, we’re usually only able to stand our own mess, and for Aishat that means living with unwashed plates and pots in the sink, dusty table tops sporting dirty cups, articles of clothing in any remotely elevated area including tables, chairs, beds, and doorframes, and trash that’s overdue for trashing. Again, I’m not complaining. It’s the job I get paid generously to do.
I open the windows to let air in, and my ears catch the voice of a preacher man. With little effort, I make out his presence as he walks up and down the street wearing a reflective vest with faded print and bearing a huge megaphone in hand. “I have a word for someone here today”, he goes, “and it’s a word of salvation”. I like preacher men, especially the ones that are persuaded by their message. I don’t think I’m convinced enough of anything to wake up each morning hell-bent on telling it to people who probably don’t care enough to listen. So I admire those with such strong convictions—people like the preacher man on Ogunjimi Close. I also think that if I had any important message to get out, and someone volunteered to spend a good portion of their life spreading the message, I would, given the means, bless them down to their 10th generation. They would neither lack nor suffer. They would never ail. They would never worry. Of course, I only say this because I’m neither omniscient nor omnipotent. If I were, I would obviously do things differently.
The core of the preacher man’s message is that we should seek God’s kingdom first in all that we do. “We are chasing vanities”, he admonishes, “when all we think about is wealth, power, and status”. He says we should care more for our souls because that is what will remain when this cosmetic shell of water and clay fades away. Finally, he asks, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and instead ends his message on a high note—by that I mean it ends with a song sung on a high note.
I return to my labour with his last question on my mind and a lazy attempt at an answer. I probably don’t want to gain the whole world. Do you? How much of the world would do? Just how much money do I need? In addition to the five basic needs of life namely, food, clothing, shelter, and two jars of peanuts, being able to afford gifts for all the people I care about would be good. Or so I think. If Aishat hears this, she would again lament my money-spending skills or rather, the lack of it. “Fikẹmi,” she’d say through her gap-toothed smile that has no doubt won many a heart over, “o o mọ aye jẹ”. You don’t know how to enjoy life. She‘s probably right. It’s somewhat ironic but it’s hard to enjoy what you’ve never really had. I may have come a long way from those days of sleeping in a carcass, surrounded by the pungent fumes of mosquito coils, but I don’t have a lot yet. I don’t have enough. And when I have enough, I wonder what vanity I might lend my resources to. A telescope? Visits to the Holy Cities? A submarine experience? A tour of NASA? I don’t know. But I don’t think the list would ever grow to warrant me gaining the whole world, so the preacher man’s word isn’t for me. Dispensing with the thought, I don my headphones to the sound of Fela, another preacher man passionately blasting his trumpet and sharing his message of shuffering and shmiling through a microphone, before resuming my cleaning. After all, those peanut jars won’t pay for themselves, dear friend.
Fin.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
Ingeniously captivating... Great work!