DECEIT WITH PIETY
Seated delightfully in my palace on a Saturday morning having a homely chit chat with the princes and the princess of my prided progeny, my phone was rung by a call from a motherly aunt.
"Hello, imam, are you at home?" she asked. "Yes I am, ma," I replied.
"I have some visitors here who are in dire need of financial help. I have done my bit, but it's obviously not enough. I will be glad if the mosque or anyone can bail them out of the strandedness. The ordeal they've been through since yesterday, according to them, is quite pathetic. May I come with them so that you hear from the horse's mouth?" I obliged the request, though not so happy that the kingly, princely bonding would be truncated.
Poor me. I was as koboless as the stranded. Immediately, I called for the presence of the mosque's secretary with whom a collective decision could be made. Aunty's soft explanation got into my head, and my mind was arrested by empathy, even before the arrival of the august visitors.
"Salaam alaykum," they greeted, knocked the door to signal their presence. It was a tall, ebony-complexioned, gentle-looking young man with a lady clad in jilbaab. In their company was the compassionate aunt. I felt more empathic seeing them - the lady especially - look worn out despite the rolls of eba (or semo) that had journeyed into their stomachs at aunty's place. "Please, sit down and feel comfortable," we welcomed them warmly.
They narrated their ordeal - how their consanguinous brother whom they had come to visit from Ikire could no longer be reached on phone when they got to Ikorodu. We became more curious wanting to help locate their brother, as children of the soil.
"Where is the address given to you?" I asked. "No address." "How was the place described to you?" "Eeee... he said we should call him when we got to the terminus. We've been calling his line since yesterday, all efforts to no avail. We could not but beg to pass the night in a mosque where #1000 was given to us this morning for t-fare. We are here because we need the money augmented for journey back home," said the sharp-tongued lady - a fantastic tale teller.
My instinct considered the tale a thrilling lie, but I rather battled my mind, as such a thought might be shaytan's whisper. So, we quizzed: "What's the name of your brother?" "Luqman," they chorused. "Where are your parents?" "Our father is deceased. We only have a mother catering for four of us. It's been hell raising us. That's why she allowed our brother come to Lagos for a greener pasture," the lady narrated. Still, I wasn't convinced. Her non-verbal cues weren't in consonance with the movement of her tongue. I smelled some rat.
"May we call your mum?" "Yes, why not?" the response was rather too instantaneous. I got her phone, surfed the contact and found a number saved with 'mummy'. I punched the dial button. Someone answered the call. She complemented the lady's tale of how the eldest child was obliged the request to travel to Lagos for a greener pasture. She begged me to help them out of the ordeal. "What's the name of the guy in Lagos, ma?" I asked. We were disappointingly dismayed to hear a contrary name. "Where do you live with your children?" "Ibadan," she replied. Another lie detected.
At that point, our compassionate aunt had been taken over by anger. "Open up your bags and drop all in them," she shouted. Hmm!
To be continued...
"Hello, imam, are you at home?" she asked. "Yes I am, ma," I replied.
"I have some visitors here who are in dire need of financial help. I have done my bit, but it's obviously not enough. I will be glad if the mosque or anyone can bail them out of the strandedness. The ordeal they've been through since yesterday, according to them, is quite pathetic. May I come with them so that you hear from the horse's mouth?" I obliged the request, though not so happy that the kingly, princely bonding would be truncated.
Poor me. I was as koboless as the stranded. Immediately, I called for the presence of the mosque's secretary with whom a collective decision could be made. Aunty's soft explanation got into my head, and my mind was arrested by empathy, even before the arrival of the august visitors.
"Salaam alaykum," they greeted, knocked the door to signal their presence. It was a tall, ebony-complexioned, gentle-looking young man with a lady clad in jilbaab. In their company was the compassionate aunt. I felt more empathic seeing them - the lady especially - look worn out despite the rolls of eba (or semo) that had journeyed into their stomachs at aunty's place. "Please, sit down and feel comfortable," we welcomed them warmly.
They narrated their ordeal - how their consanguinous brother whom they had come to visit from Ikire could no longer be reached on phone when they got to Ikorodu. We became more curious wanting to help locate their brother, as children of the soil.
"Where is the address given to you?" I asked. "No address." "How was the place described to you?" "Eeee... he said we should call him when we got to the terminus. We've been calling his line since yesterday, all efforts to no avail. We could not but beg to pass the night in a mosque where #1000 was given to us this morning for t-fare. We are here because we need the money augmented for journey back home," said the sharp-tongued lady - a fantastic tale teller.
My instinct considered the tale a thrilling lie, but I rather battled my mind, as such a thought might be shaytan's whisper. So, we quizzed: "What's the name of your brother?" "Luqman," they chorused. "Where are your parents?" "Our father is deceased. We only have a mother catering for four of us. It's been hell raising us. That's why she allowed our brother come to Lagos for a greener pasture," the lady narrated. Still, I wasn't convinced. Her non-verbal cues weren't in consonance with the movement of her tongue. I smelled some rat.
"May we call your mum?" "Yes, why not?" the response was rather too instantaneous. I got her phone, surfed the contact and found a number saved with 'mummy'. I punched the dial button. Someone answered the call. She complemented the lady's tale of how the eldest child was obliged the request to travel to Lagos for a greener pasture. She begged me to help them out of the ordeal. "What's the name of the guy in Lagos, ma?" I asked. We were disappointingly dismayed to hear a contrary name. "Where do you live with your children?" "Ibadan," she replied. Another lie detected.
At that point, our compassionate aunt had been taken over by anger. "Open up your bags and drop all in them," she shouted. Hmm!
To be continued...
Author: Sanni Kay Yusuf
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