I dedicate this note to Divya Nawale, a friend in need and a friend indeed. I thank you for being there for me all these times. I’m telling this story because of you.
I love writing, but I would definitely choose watching a UEFA Champions League knockout match over staying late to finish a piece to be published by a local newspaper. As an erratic teenager, just when I had tied the knot with writing, and before I graduated from the Academy of puberty stricken den of ugly sporadic hissy fits, I used to say that my most fulfilling moment in writing would be to write or blog for the Wall Street Journal, or even the New York Times. But growing up, and after enrolling in the school of experiencing life in one’s early 20s, I realised that writing is more of fulfilment than prestige.
I write mainly to share, and in sharing begets reaching out with a positive vibe, sometimes trying hard to avoid mundane messages woollen from lullabies. I’m sharing this one with you because I feel it would make you smile, and if it doesn’t, I’m not sure you would frown either.
Somewhere July 2010, a street hawker made my day after a terrible time at work, the result of which I put a post on Facebook, only to be responded to by a close friend of mine who’s day had turned sour on another continent at the same time mine occurred.
It was evening rush hour, already intimidated by the disrespectful traffic jam; I strode from the bus with only one thing on my mind- the gracious dinner waiting to greet my weary lips. I wished I had wings to fly and devour the very life out of that arrogant food. As I walked past a swell of street hawkers, a stew of voice caught my attention which ushered me an eerie sense of déjà vu.
A hawker, appearing to be in his late twenties and selling children story and fiction materials on the defaced floor, was reciting some familiar stanzas of Chinua Achebe’s book- ‘Things Fall Apart’. Interestingly, those lines were the first page of the book that I had memorized several years ago.
Suddenly I was frozen in my track beside the young man. As he read and ended a line, I inadvertently took over, reciting two lines to his amazement. I paused, and he took over, and before we knew, we had recited the first page in turns. It was just beautiful. Onlookers ogled, and passersby were caught standing and enjoying the show. After the performance, I swallowed him in a bear hug, as his day- old sparse whiskers tingled my facial pores. I couldn’t hide my joy; I quickly shared it on facebook in a post – “Today, a street hawker made my day”. I was happy in Ghana.
In response to my post was a message by a very good friend of mine, living in London, who narrated her own version that streaked my story with an attitude of untimely irony. Now this was hers: As she was coming back from the temple in the evening, a man (maybe in his 20s) ran past her real fast that she jumped, as he nearly bumped into her. Behind her, a woman went running and yelling “Please stop, don’t do this to me”, bursting and crying. Her hand bag was history; she had been mugged around Tottenham Court Road Station.
At the sight of the wailing woman, my friend felt really helpless and vulnerable and admitted that she would have tripped the mugger over with her leg to stop him, if she knew why he was running. In effect, she was communicating to me "how ironic life can be, that someone’s best moment of life somewhere is the worst for another or maybe the person just sitting next to you on the bus who was having such a terrible day, while you are full of smiles".
She concluded her message, “sometimes I feel guilty to be happy, maybe that’s a sadistic way of looking at things but at least I am real. I am glad you had a happy moment there though. Your status made me smile”.
That night, I played back all the occurrences, trying to borrow her thoughts to connect to my own experience. Before sleep took over my irresponsibly drunken eyes, I sigh and thought- happy in Ghana, crazy in London.
GM (2011)
