His bones were standing in heart-breaking row. His teeth were thick brown. They've were decaying.. He sat on a high stool, his legs dangling miserably above the floor.

His body odour was pungent, even the flies stood afar off. It wasn't the smell of stale body sweat or the gagging smell of a fifty-three years old unbrushed teeth. It was the smell of poverty. The smell glided gracefully to my nostrils, assaulting my sensibility..

Shakespeare would say, "To be or not to be"; mine was, "to run or not to run"..


I wanted to excuse myself and have a gulp of fresh air but then, I couldn't leave him. Everyone was abandoning him.


But I couldn't afford to, he was all I had. So I sat still on the mat beside his stool, watching him.


He had all he wanted; wealth was nothing... His stool was made with gold, he wore rings that had diamond studs in them..

On the table beside him, bundles of naira notes fought for space. Yet, his clothes were so ragged that even a beggar would have been ashamed of him.

The water in his fridge was cool yet, he would wobble a long distance to get refined pond water that cost him a fortune... His meals were leftovers thrown to him by huge and fiercesome dog owners...

The dogs would contaminate the water and the owners would give him a pat on his head for doing nothing about their dogs...


"You're rich, why do you choose to suffer Sir?" I would ask.


"I suffer and smile because I can't afford to give up the crumbs that the dog owners give to me. I suffer and smile because I am greedy and even if I have the courage to fight oppression, I'll still oppress my people when I wield power.


I suffer because my poverty and lost morals helps me make quick money and escape jail time", he said.


"But your tactics profit you nothing. Your once high stool has been eaten by termites and soon, you'll crash and settle yourself on a heap... Cockroaches stare up at you in disdain".


"Be quiet young man, My name is fifty-three years old today and I've never been wiser... I have dreams of a better future, my supervisors draw beautiful agendas for me.

Yes, it is firty-three with no vision and a shattered future. Yet I'm proud. Do I not deserve to be celebrated?"


I stared at him.

It was true that his name was fifty-three years old but he was still a child. His mind was prematurely stunted . I could stand the stench no longer.

I stood up and began to walk away as his neighbours shouted,

"Happy Independence day Nigeria!"

Sycophants, they would rather wish him more decaying years than tell him the truth.


The truth which is that, "He was dying and needed help".

But then, who cares? He was old enough to know what was good for him. All I could do was to weep because he was all I had. But no more......

Hmmm... Nigeria..
Just the truth