The man on the carton mat: Living off compassion p1.

My name is Belema. I am neither rich nor poor. I say this because I do not have all I want but I have all I need.
I do not eat with cutlery and cannot boast to have tried Chinese or Thai food but I eat just well enough. Enough to know when there is too much salt, maggi or pepper.
I do not wear fancy or designer clothes and my wrist has never been embraced by a Rolex but my clothes are neat and do not have holes in exposed places.
It is true that I come from an under-developed country. A country where kids still roam the streets hawking and dangerously pursuing buses on a highway rather than being in classes and laboratories researching the cure for cancer or working on the next revolutionary app.
It is true I come from a country where, somewhere in the north, a girl child is given away to marriage before she turns 15.
A country with militants in the creeks of the south and herdsmen in the middle-belt and the north. A country known for corruption and political injustice. A country with so many defects that its citizens have lost hope in the prospects of its betterment.
It is true that I want to travel the world; to take a vacation from my country’s imperfections but it is my dear country nonetheless and no matter how far I go, there would always be a longing to come back home.
My country still has its moments of serenity, where you can even enjoy watching a sunset or a football game.
I say this because I know there are countries where children not only roam the streets but are forcefully enlisted into local militias, exposed to a world of violence at such a tender age.
I hear of a country where little adolescent and teenage girls are not just forced into marriage but are victims of human trafficking and constant physical abuse.
I hear of a country where political injustice is not a matter for discussion because it is run under monocracy and democracy has not seen the light of day.
All these headlines I see online make me want to count my blessings.
On one of those days when everything seemed great… perfect even… I took a walk down a street leading to a main road. I think my happiness on that particular day made me take notice of the little things I often took for granted.
I saw a man sitting on a carton mat with his arms reaching out, beckoning to strangers for aid (money that is).
On this very day, I decided to cross the gutter and stand behind an old fence where I could really observe the whole scenario. While observing this disabled man, many questions ran across my mind.
How did he get here every morning? How did he leave every night?
Where did he live?
Did he live nearby?
It was a hot afternoon so I couldn’t wait long enough to have any of my questions answered. I decided to put off the questions for a moment and just observe.
I saw that most of the people who walked past him had very funny and different ways of reacting.
Some looked at him with pity and walked past; some looked like they were in a hurry and so whenever he beckoned to them, they frowned at him.
I tried to guess what was going on in their minds. They probably thought to themselves that they had problems of their own. Some who saw him from afar made their countenance expressionless and looked the other way or straight ahead.
Of course, there were those who managed to reach into their pockets and pick out a twenty naira or fifty naira note and the man on the mat would beam at them and pour praises and blessings on them.
I also tried to guess what each thought after that act and they all showed a common trait of either smiling or suppressing a smile, with a sudden air of confidence and satisfaction from knowing they had shown kindness.
Now this is not a story of the Good Samaritan but let me tell you a story all the same.
I’ll tell you a story of a man who said he knew a man similar to the man on the carton mat where he came from. He said this other man would take money from people under the guise of being disabled but he had a mansion in his village. He said this man had built a mansion but still came out every morning to seek aids on a mat.
I’ll tell you another story of a similar man who said he knew a man whose mat looked just like that of the man on the street that leads to the main road.
He said the man would seek aid and use the money collected to bewitch the donors. He said the man would rob them of their destinies so that any money they would have made in future would go to him.

Stories… Stories… more stories such as these I have told.
My country people cannot afford to lose their superstition. It is engraved in their hearts and minds and deep rooted in our most-cherished culture.
One face remains all the same.
Somewhere around, there is a man on a carton mat who reaches out his arms calling for aid.
Maybe your man on the mat is a woman with kids in the sun, some crying and some tugging at the hems of your shirt.
Maybe your man on the mat is an exotic looking child with long black hair or short curly hair walking up to you saying they need food.
Maybe yours is a neighbour who needs a cup of garri to appease the angry gods in his stomach.
Whoever your man on the mat may be, remember that there are those who live off compassion.
*Extra: After watching for a while, the heat of the sun began to affect me and I was woken from my daydreaming by the honk of a car. The stranger probably needed directions to the main road.