Try Compassion

Dinachukwu struggled out of the yellow commuter bus, extricating herself from the near glued mass of passengers was quite offensive this sunday morning. She almost hissed at the conductor as she paid her fare,

"foolish pipu, you no longer stop there abi, because nobody was there to pick?!" She spat to herself. Her irritation was not justified she knew, but these bus people could be very annoying.

When the campus' main gate had been closed up for re-construction, an acting-main-gate was opened up some distance before the main gate. But being dropped at the campus gate bus stop, proportionate to the actual maingate, meant you'ud walk some distance back to the improvised gate. 

The commuter buses illegally pick up passengers around the improvised, often times obstructing traffic flow in the process, no gratitude to the narrow passage of a road. Thus Dinachukwu was pissed when the driver and his painful conductor said the police would catch them for dropping at the improvised, "...but they'll not catch you for picking there",she sneered to herself still.

She hurried down towards improvised, she was visiting her campus fellowship as an alumni and she had to be there on time, bus madness or not. As she approached the slight bend that led to the wider spanse before the gate itself, she mentally noted how much she had left and satisfied herself that her offering was intact. 

Her expression was still taut as she gazed past the legendry beggar who nested on his stick, one foot supporting the stick-cum-high-stool. In recent times, he'd taken to sitting outrightly, maybe his bum needed a break today.

She did what everyone did when walking past, either look away or ignore. Not that she always did that, her avoidance method actually had always been, acknowlegde his greeting then look straight ahead with a light shake of the head to signal, 'not giving today, reasons best known to me'.

Today, she just looked on, no light-head-shake signalling. Giving him some money would really slash her offering abeg, some other no-offering-demanded day pls.

*****

The Peugeot 607 pulled into the parking lot and Mr. Taiwo came out clutching his large bible. He left the locking up to his wife. He was cordinating prayers and twas already 2 minutes to time. 

He was almost at the door when he remembered, he looked around and his eyes met an ushers', the ushers were rounding off their sunday morning prayers before service kick off. He motioned for her,

"Goodmorning sir", she approached, her smile engaging.

"Did you see the man at the gate?", his habit of blaming 'you' was not nouveau.

"Goodmorning sir, which is...?", she thought he didn't hear the initial greeting.

"Go ask the security to get that man away from the gate, this is church, he shouldn't be begging on a sunday, he should be in church!" he ignored her greeting again, his English accent intimidating.

"Goodmorning sir, is that man still there?! Thought he went off already", the head usher had just joined them.

"Just tell the security to work!", he said almost impatiently, and swirled round, little or no attention paid to the ushers. It was already five minutes past prayers.

Head usher and Ire, the other usher, found the security man by Taiwos' car, it appeared Mrs Taiwo was just finishing a church-is-not-the-street lecture for the appologetic man. They joined the concluding 'lecture', bearing down on the issue as if he had sent the man at the gate a personal invite.

Taiwo's wife even followed him back to the gate to shew the beggar away, the ushers had left to resume duty, the premise was already teaming with worshippers.

"...and this one is so dirty", Mrs Taiwo thought, face contorting with misplaced sympathy. She couldn't imagine why he'ud come to beg in church on a sunday, was it because the market was shut on sundays?!

"no respect or fear for God sef!", she hissed. She met Mrs Uzo at the door, they hugged briefly, ahhing and uhhing at nothing in particular.

****

Temitope ran up to the beggar and trust the #20 her mum gave her to give him. They had just alighted from the bike when they saw him being driven away, dirty looking, his tall frame stooped. His left foot was twisted and he looked so much a northerner with his ragged kaftan and his begging bowl. When she trust the money to him, he put forth his bowl to receive it, uttering obsenities she couldn't be bothered with. 

Something about his eyes was very intriguing, her young mind knew it was pain and suffering, then it turned very tender when she gave him her biscuit for lack of what else to do for him.

As she ran to catch up with her mum who had reached the gate already, "I died for them child,I did", hit her ears. 

She turned to stare, that was no hausa begger, could it be...

Do the dying see the love of Jesus outside our quintessential church edifice?

Our offerings are useless if '...the least of My brethren' are ignored.

EVERYONE NEEDS COMPASSION! SHARE GOD'S LOVE!