FULANI GIRL

The girl had been obdurate, even as I begged her to leave my hand. She'd clutched tighter and even lifted her feet off the floor, thus floating in air and depending solely on the strength of my arm. I stopped walking, thinking about polite and agreeable ways of saying "I don't have any money to give". I looked deeper into her. She smelt bad. Her beautiful eyes were sinking inside their sockets and her frail, yellow face appeared to be quickly losing its colour.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that if she'd stolen as much destinies and wealths as people say, then she wouldn't be here; defying the approaching downpour just as she had defied the heat. Behind me, a beautiful girl who had on a purple, tight fitting, patterned gown was being approached by yet another one of those kids. I watched as she threatened to slap the child if she dared come near her. But the child kept edging closer, though hesitantly, with a hardened plea in her eyes. I turned and looked at her mother, dismayed and appalled, as she sat looking at the floor as though nothing was happening. The beautiful girl yelled louder and wilder at the child. This did it. The kid merely walked away, slowly, down the other side of the road.

I'd been shown the way it was done. But I too remembered the look in her eyes. It was darker than her very dark hair, and bonier than her malnourished body which seemed only execrably covered by that poor wrap of black flesh. It was cold. Too cold. Too used to this - this yelling selfishness, this disorderliness. I looked at the one clutching my hand and tried as best as I could to tell her I wanted to bring out money from my pocket. She seemed to understand and left my hand. I brought out N200 and gave her. She collected it and walked off in that malnourished manner - her body swaying too weakly with each step, almost as though she had too much help from the still breeze.

There was not a "thank you" to be heard. No "sorry for disturbing you so", not even suggestive gestures - Nothing. I left feeling miserable. Inside me was a tumble of emotions. Pity, anger, disbelief, bewilderment. I kept trying not to judge their mother - for that seemed the easiest thing to do.

But was I really expecting a thank you, I kept asking myself? Did her world give room for such luxuries as contrition, apology, and gratitude? Where was the place of hope in her world, or trust or faith? No. They were something from the other earth inhabited by them who were privileged; born rich enough to afford their elegant hearts capable of so much emotions. In her world, there were only a handful of choiceable emotions - most of which were too costly or too highly overpriced anyway. And the ones she could afford were only the ones essential for her survival.

I imagined trying to tell her, in the manner of a motivation speaker, to have faith, and imagined her hard, cold eyes, expressionlessly telling me that, such concepts did not exist in her world.