I saw him everyday. In the mornings. Very early. Between 6 and 7am.
The place I met him varied depending on the time I left the house. But so far as I stepped out around those hours, I surely bumped into him.
He seemed to have no holidays, no breaks. Always in same clothes, soaked in flour, as if he and his profession had become one. Married to the game.
From one shop to the other he went, on his bike, supplying bread.
His hair was always unkempt, dreadlocks which he never bothered to soak in water so those mighty strands could quench their thirst and drench the heat of the scotchy sun in which they swam daily.
Morning and afternoon and evening was work time for him.
I never knew his name. Neither does he know mine. But we knew each other well, by face.
For nearly each day of my three-year stay in the neighborhood, we met, exchanging smiles and greetings.
This was a community just like any other. Where girls dumped boys because they had no money, wasn’t their taste or suddenly lost appetite after eating. And yet this gentleman wasn’t bothered about his looks.
His job, his focus. Day in day out.
Where he lived, whether he was a stranger or native, married or single, I know not.
But I admired his consistency and relentless determination.
You never saw him arguing or engaging in some idle talk about a previous or upcoming match.
I still have his face in my face as I write this. A hard black African face, that managed to smile despite whatever he kept to himself. Always looking skinny, a face resembling Abraham Lincoln.
Then one day, something happened.
It was probably getting to the three years that I had known him.
It was a holiday. We were celebrating something I can’t remember what. Perhaps Eid-ul-fitr or Christmas.
Can’t remember where I was headed that day. Maybe to some family that had invited me over for a meal. All I remember was while walking around a bakery nearly where my niece lived, I was suddenly distracted by some noise.
Initially, I didnt know what engineered it. I turned and turned, perhaps 420 degrees, before finding the source of public excitement.
There he was! My friend whose name I never knew. It was him indeed but without the look of flour about him and his tattered clothes.
For a while I was sure it wasn’t him.
He was so different. For the first time, he wore nice pair of jeans, clean t-shirt, neat pair of shoes to go with them. His hair, kempt.
What had happened to him?
No wonder he attracted the attention of the neighborhood.
Excited crowds followed him everywhere like he had won a lottery. He looked respectable and fine.
Seeing him that day taught me a lot. That there are moments people will underrate you and brush you aside as someone nothing good could come out of. There are times you’ll find yourself in a hole where your fortunes can’t turn around overnight. There are times you find yourself in a tight corner you keep cursing whatever pushed you there.
But instead of folding arms and lamenting, one must rise. They say, a person whose bum is glued to his or her seat cannot be assisted to go somewhere worthwhile. One must rise, and move, planting one feet after the other in the direction of one’s goals.
The picture of that gentleman will always remind me of life and stages. There are moments life pepper us with flour and we must roam around looking like loaves of bread about to be baked, entertaining our world.
But while roaming, we plan and work and dream and scheme, restrategizing.
One day, we shall have our chance to put on our finest clothes and take a seat among the respectable and the respected.
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