LIFE STORIES
We Move On?
Eddy, George, Aunt Peju, and I
We move on. We all do.
Two years ago, I was living in my own misery. Be it self-imposed, man-made, or divinely assigned, I cannot now remember. All I knew was I was having the worst of times. Confused. Feeling ostracised. And worse, banished to an unfamiliar territory where my loneliness was loud and the only consolation was hearing my own breath. If anything, it informed me I was still alive. Until the 30th. Until I received the news, Eddy had moved on on the 6th of July. We had had our last chat. Said our last byes. The shock was too rude and the news, had me mad at myself. In retrospect, I was more angry that it took me so long to discover than his actual exit from this plain. He had just become a father the previous year.
We move on. In different ways.
Aunty Peju was someone I knew from my teenage years. She was mentally unstable. I wonder if she would have recuperated well if she was checked into a mental health facility. I remember her walking towards Mama Moria and the latter finding her food. At some point, I thought they were related. They were not. Today, as the tricycle I boarded coasted down the road, I saw her in tattered clothing traversing the area on bare feet. I'm no longer a teenager and somehow, Aunty Peju looked worse off than I remember. She cannot dream of mothering a child if she hadn't had any or marrying a sweetheart as things stand. But life moved on. It waits for no one.
We move on. Some, to better things, some, to nowhere.
George spent most afternoons playing PlayStation games when we both shared a street. No, I wasn't a street lord nor was he one. We were just fated to live in the same neighbourhood. I quietly looked at them as they game on for hours on end after school hours. They bet, lose all their money, pay for the game, then go away. I, because of the epileptic nature of the electricity supply, find myself in the same space with them. The barber shop was a more oblivious place to blend. I never did blend though. My quiet nature earned me a nickname. Pastor. Whoever told them being gentle and reticent is one of the many things expected of a pastor has not met a lot of pastors.
That time felt like a lifetime ago now. It's been more than twelve years. I have seen George wandering the street and he has asked me for alms a few times. I have indulged him when I can. His clothing does not really portray any signs of good living. He is young but balding. Today, as I hid from the sky's threatening deluge, I saw him jog by in the rain. I thought he was running somewhere. I found my way into another tricycle and as I sat in the vehicle, George jogged back the same way he jogged away from my view initially. He seemed to sport a smile on his face and like a gay child, must have been enjoying the downpour. My heart broke a bit. I know it would take more than words of advice to set him right or try to steer him elsewhere. He has moved on from that youthful life and I have moved on from the 'pastor' tag. We all have moved on. Haven't we?
We all move on. Where we move to, makes all the difference.
May life be kind to us. May we be kind to others.
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