Preordained #ProjectNigeria

62- It's Complicated

"Where is your father now?"

"He died when I was seven."

"My condolences."

"That's alright," I reply with a forced laugh.

"Is there any other thing that drives you?"

"Of course. In my own little way, I am contributing to the economy. My cassava and yams are processed and exported. Other crops like corn, tomatoes and pepper are supplied at cheaper prices to market sellers to increase their profit. I am working towards processing fruit concentrate for fruit drinks, in the hope that we won't have to import the bulk of it."

"How did you get here?"

"Five years ago- after my Youth Service- I took a loan from the bank, along with my savings and some money from my parents. I bought a large plot of land and started growing some cassava. Along the way, I bought the neighbouring plot with some bulidings. I was able to convince some of my father's friends to invest, too. It's just been expanding from there. I think I am fortunate to have come this far in a short while."

"Are you involved in charity?"

"It's not something I like to talk about, but I am working with some potential partners to kick start a food bank for the homeless, especially children."

"That is amazing, I'm impressed. Please tell me more about this food bank. How tangible is it in the Nigerian context?"

"In the Nigerian context, our weather doesn't support preservation of most fresh foods without refrigeration. The plan is to process these foods- for example, tomatoes can be blended, boiled and stored in tight containers- and supply them to food banks in designated areas for storage. Also, donations from well-meaning Nigerians will be welcomed. But this is still in the works, we are still going over the practicalities and looking for loopholes, but we are optimistic about it."

"You sound like this has a deeper meaning to you; this food bank."

"I have been homeless before," I tell her seriously. "I have starved and feared for the uncertainty of my next meal. I have gone through garbage, searching for anything edible, and so I can relate to not having a place to sleep and food to eat."

"That's a shocker. How did this happen, if I may ask? And I hope it's not too prying?"

"Not at all. My parents died when I was seven. I ran away from home, ended up in Owerri city, lived with a colony of beggars, before being taken to an orphanage. I was adopted three years later."

Mummy will grill me for this.

The journalist has to pick up her jaw from the floor. Her eyes look me from head to toe, as if in disbelief that the cultured man sitting before her could have gone through such in the past.

"This is too much to take in. To say I am shocked is too little."

I chuckle. "I can't imagine," I say wryly.

"Your parents must be proud of you- I mean, both sets of them- all of them- I'm sorry, I'm too perplexed." She shakes her head and supports it with a hand her eyes wide.

Laughter erupts from my lips, probably the most genuine laughter I've had in a while. "Come on, Agatha. Surely there are people in worse situations, and some of them are doing way better than I am."

"That's what we see in the media, but I have never heard about it in person, Maduka. This feels surreal. You are an inspirational figure to many out there."

"I am?"
The thought has me feeling warm inside, and my smile this time is not forced. I remember Nwanyieze, and the knowledge that my story is not complete without her sits on my chest with such heaviness that my smile dies immediately.