My dear boy,
The ancient city of Calabar holds a surprise for every visitor. For the tourist, it reveals the green scenery that it has to offer; not so much that the tourist isn’t acquainted with such sights, but much of the humanity that is wrapped in the green pasture that you see: boulevards for roads, which is not very common in cities in this part of the world. These cities have become so animated that there is no life in them. So when you come into the city, the very state known as the nation’s paradise, you’re greeted with this truth because it actually feels like the nation’s paradise.
Now, my dear boy, I didn’t visit the city of Calabar for sightseeing. I went there to study, and I remembered that the city of Calabar was the first place as a young adult that I would witness the kindness of strangers. Perhaps, it’s something that the city does to you. Maybe it’s the culture of the people. Perchance, it is the liberal nature of the young folk here: everywhere is steeped in liberality. There’s the arts, there’s culture, you name it. The nightlife is great. Marian is there: the part of town that never sleeps. I know. I’ve visited. I visited that place a couple of times while I was a student. Even as a graduate, I couldn’t resist.
See, you hop into a cab, or get on a bus, and someone greets you unlike Lagos. There, everybody just minds their business, and every form of greeting is worthy of suspicion. Because to be greeted with kindness in a public transport in the city of Lagos is only a tell-tale sign that you are about to be robbed. Hence, if someone said, “Hi, how are you today?” The first thing is to not respond, but to check whether your phone is where you left it. Everyone knows that in the city of Lagos your phone doesn’t belong in your pockets. Neither does your phone belong in your bag; your phone belongs in your hand. That tight grip that I am tempted to say is stronger than that of a newborn’s.
Anyway, this particular evening, here I was strolling the streets of the universe-city of Calabar, and I met this young man. I had never seen him before. Never had he seen me before. There was nothing that tied us except that we happened to be in the same institution at the same time. There was no history whatsoever. And I turned to him, and I explained to him that I was a freshman, who needed a place to lay his head. At the time, I still had struggles with my accommodation. Of course, anyone who attended the University of Calabar knows that it can take quite a while to have your accommodation sorted. But one thing was clear, I couldn’t stay any longer where I was.
This young man looked at me and asked, Why don’t you come back tomorrow? Gave me his contact and said, Call me once you get here. I arrived the next day, gave him a call, and he took me to where would become my home: Hall 5, Malabor Republik. Now, Malabor Republik is a place meant to build you. It’s guaranteed to shake you up. The first emotion is hatred. First, you hate the Republik for what it is, after which indifference trails gently behind, because you have resigned to fate. And then love. You love the Republik.
At this point, you’re getting ready to leave. One may argue that you perhaps love the Republik because you’re about to leave. No, it’s because you’re not who you once were when you arrived. You’re not the same person. You’ve changed. Let’s not forget that you have had your fair share of contribution to the economy of the Republik, willingly or otherwise, by omission or by commission. However you choose to look at it, you have contributed to the economy of Malabor Republik.
I digress. I am writing to you about the kindness of Austin, which I must establish that Austin wasn’t staying alone. Austin was with someone else. Granted, the typical hostel room in the male section is expected to house four roommates. So there are two bunks, each having top and bottom layers. That is, two persons down, two persons up. However, when the night comes, the least number of occupants you are ever going to find in a room is six, because sometimes you have someone or people squatting with someone or people.
The former was Austin’s situation. Austin had someone he was squatting with, yet he obliged my request. That leaves you wondering, At what point do we deem ourselves capable of kindness? What does “enough” mean? Is there a certain “enough” that we must have to propel us to being kind? Austin didn’t have the best of options. Nevertheless, he looked at this young man having no one and he took me in. Need I mention that I was beardless at the time but full of hair, which one of my lecturers would later accuse of being responsible for my skinny look. According to him, my hair had taken all the nutrients my body needed because, of course, I had this lush, long, beautiful, black hair.
Agreed, I said to him, Look, I need a place to keep my bags, and I can always find somewhere to sleep. Everyone knew night class was where you went to sleep. Most people didn’t go to night class to read. It was the best choice to get a well-needed shut eye, which, apparently, wasn’t very good because you had your back against wooden seats, and desks. That was what you had amidst other things that happened during night class that I wouldn’t want to admit to in this letter.
So, even in the moment of constraint, Austin lent a helping hand, which would introduce me into the life of a Malabite. You must understand this, my dear boy: we had two sets of students in Unical: academic students and non-academic students. The non-academic students were students who were no longer recognized members of the university community, but somehow hung around. These were stopouts, dropouts, expelled students; you still found them loitering about because sometimes there’s really not a system to check whether those who ought to have left had left or not, so we still had them in the system.
Everyone who attended this higher institution had a name. The males were called Malabites and the females were called Malabresses. Nevertheless, to be a true Malabite, you ought to have experienced life in the Republik, which is Malabor Republik. This is what made you a Malabite with Malabitic tendencies. As such, when you heard, “Great Malabites,” the response was “reasonable action.” My introduction into this community would, of course, bring about a certain mind shift, which has resulted in so many other things that this letter would not carry.
Anyway, my dear boy, I ask again, At what point is it enough to share? Do we dismiss kindness due to the inconvenience that we may suffer? I dare to say that a person is not kind enough if they always act out of convenience. Kindness that awaits convenience may never come. So, be kind. There is almost always enough to be kind with. Austin may not know it, but I still remember. I didn’t spend a lot of time with him, because shortly after I had my accommodation sorted. I started to stay by myself and at every point, I remember that when I needed it the most, when I needed the supposed “bare minimum,” there was Austin Arikpo to give me that.
Hence, when I find myself in a situation where someone needs the “bare minimum,” I remember, and I pay it forward. In other words, the greatest form of gratitude for kindness received is not necessarily a requited kindness. It is kindness given to someone else who has no idea that the fruit of kindness which they today eat is from a seed of kindness sown by someone from yesterday. In The Gift, Lewis Hyde explores how gifts lose their power when they are merely possessed, but gain meaning when they continue circulating. Kindness, like a gift, is meant to move.
Therefore, always pay it forward. Invariably, paying it forward does not in any way eliminate gratitude for the one who sowed the seed. When you can appreciate the person who sowed the seed. Do so just as you sow the seed in the life of someone else. My son, whether that person in whose life you have sown the seed remembers to be grateful or not, that should not deter you from performing acts of kindness. Be kind, and do kind works. Be ready to die for something, and, more importantly, live for something.
Love,
Dad.
