I was seated at the back of the taxi, behind the front passenger, musing to myself. That's when I saw her.
Or rather, I saw her car. It was a fiery red, like a fully mature ata rodo pepper; it was no surprise it caught my attention. She was driving, her side window beside mine.I looked up from admiring the car's hue.

Three rapid blinks at the sight. She was driving, yes. She was also holding a toddler in her arms. With one hand, she turned the steering; with the other, she held a feeding bottle to the baby's mouth.

Beside her sat another girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old; she had no seat-belt on. In the back were two other young children who looked to be four or five years old. Both were standing, holding on to the back of the front seats.

At first, I had no words.
What does one say to this, the sight of a mother who willfully puts her family at risk in this manner? My people, what does one say?

"My God! For real? Is she for real?" I finally exclaimed.

The other passengers swung their heads in my direction.

"No mind am. Na so dem dey do," said one.

"If anything happens now, this one will blame her village people," said another.

"My sister, just leave that one."

But how could I keep quiet?

I know our world says, "Mind your business." If you point out a wrong, they say, "Please, don't judge. He who is without sin, cast the first stone."

But how can I watch my neighbour take hot coals into their bosom, and hope they don't get burned? My people, reason am nah.

The palm wine tapper does not say that because the hunter brought down an elephant by himself, he should carry it home alone. No, my brother. Bring your wine, let me bring my meat. If we help each other, the village will have a feast.

So, I wound down the glass.

"Madam!" I screamed. "Why are you doing this? Why would you put your family at such a risk? If you park and give that child water, will you die?"

My people, some good deeds do not go unpunished. Or resented.

For this woman, she looked over, eyed me, hissed and stepped on the accelerator.

Ah!

My people say, "Edudu uno, afo ate idu ikpong."
This was it; let me help you on your path of life, you say no, I'll live alone.

My fellow passengers were outraged.

"Look at this woman o!" said one.

"See the person you're even trying to help." said another.

The driver sped up. We caught up.


Yes, she'd hissed, she'd eyed me. She'd sped up.
But the baby was now with the teenage girl. Not good, but not as bad as before.

Ah, my people, my people.

It is the same way I felt when I went to buy okrika shoes from Bro Emeka on the overhead bridge. There I was pricing shoes, belaboured by my heavy handbag which was packed for a weekend at Nky's house.

"Sister, this one fit you o!" Emeka enthused.

"See as your leg fresh! For this leg enh, I go marry you dey wash your pant every day."

My people, to God who made me, I would've reprimanded Emeka. This is what woke people call sexual harrassment these days, abi?
But I laughed. Because in Igbo, it did not sound like harassment; it was funny.
In fact, it was 'tikuling my fancy.'

Because what's the use of frowning when Emeka will not understand and probably hike the price of the shoes because I'm "franking my face"?
I'm just saying, my people.

So, I giggled and said, "Emeka stop washing me, biko. I no go buy dis shoe more than teray tahzand."

That's when I heard her. Not her voice, but a loud thump. I swivelled around to see her on the ground. She struggled, tried to get back up but fell again.

It was her eyes. They made me leap forward. The confusion and pain in them.

"Don't touch her!" a man screamed, putting out his arm to block me. "You don't know what made her fall.

I looked up at this man who impeded my movement. I looked around. Movement on the bridge was almost at a stand still. Everyone had given the fallen girl a wide berth. They stood around, watching her struggle.

Ah, my people.

The palm wine tapper does not say that just because helping the hunter carry his elephant back to the village may break his back, he will let him carry it alone.
I pushed the man's arm aside and ran to the girl.

I helped her up, cradled her in my arms. Her face was pale, eyes dull with pain.

"I've got you," I said. "Don't worry. I've got you."

"Please. Hold me. Don't let me go," she whispered softly.

"I won't. I'm here."

Her lids fluttered shut and her head lolled back in a faint.

I glanced up at Emeka. "Send someone to bring me water. Now!"

And just like that, motion resumed on the bridge. Someone brought the water. The girl in my arms came round.

"Please, hold me," she said again.

"Esther...Esther, what happened?" someone interrupted.

A girl, her friend it seemed.

"Do you know her?" I asked.

"I'm her friend. We were walking together and I turned around and didn't see her again."

"Help me hold her up."

My mind went to my bag, which was open.

"God, please don't let anyone steal my phone or wallet," I prayed. Let me not suffer for this.

We dusted her clothes, gave her water. Her friend put on arm around her.

"Thank you," she said as they limped off together.

I watched for a little while. Then I turned back to continue my shopping. As if they were waiting for me, our spectators poured out their comments.

"Nne, what you did was dangerous o! What if she's a witch?" said one.

"Maybe she's possessed sef," said another.

"My dear, you don't help people anyhow. Before they will transfer juju to you."

Ah, my people. Our superstition will not kill us.

"Oga," I said to the first. "What juju or demon can be greater than our humanity and love for one another? Oga, if you fall, I will help you. If something bad will happen, let it happen. But I will not see you in need and watch you struggle. Lailai!"

They all fell silent.

Then the second one said, "Nne, you have a good heart. You're right. God will bless you. All the good that is yours will come to you."

"Amen!" they chorused. As did I.

I tell you, my people, we must say the truth, even if it means we're not minding our so-called business. We must do good, even if it will offend some.

And we must teach others, though it's hard sometimes. Be the change we want to see, abi? Ehen.
In the end, we and our country will be all the better for it.

By the way, do you know that Emeka sold those lovely shoes to me for three thousand naira! Okrika designers. Can you believe it?

Teray tahzand naira onlay!

*
For more real stories like this, visit www.ketimae.