Halleluyah

Do you think about the blind preacher’s life?

If someone leads him to the bus park every morning or if he has a someone at all? Does he have a wife who straightens that brown short-sleeve suit and takes him by the arm, telling him to lift one leg or go down a step? Does he have a son who sells recharge cards in the park and watches from a distance?

Does he move, unfazed, from bus to bus – fulfilment coming from the very act of his preaching? Or do his feet drag as his heart sinks when no one responds with an “Amen.”?

Does he go home to a wife who sets out a meal of eba and ogbono and asks how his day went? Does he say “Fine, Fine,” or does he sigh heavily and say “They have hard hearts, we will try again tomorrow!”

Or does he go home alone, clinging to the edge of the road- just before the gutter starts; hoping the upturned whites of his eyes will prevent people from bumping into him? Does he get to his home, peel open the moi-moi Iya Sadiq slips into his pocket and straighten out the ‘offerings’ accumulated? Does he guess at his days’ earnings, running a calloused finger over the money notes – is that 50Naira or 20Naira? And does he whisper a soft “Halleluyah” either way?

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