BALANCE

His arms were unequal, providing him with an uneven gait. One arm stopped where his elbow would be normally, and then the other dangled by its lonesome, forever unable to unite with its other half. 

He wore his look well, and had mastered the art of self-deprecation. Only the truly wicked would ignore his request for a hand. It was becoming rude, the way I stared at him, but my fascination with his imbalance was only growing. All my questions were swirling and pooling around on my tongue, yet I watched him.

He doesn't know that he's being watched. He yammers away, complaining about the bus and calling us all immigrants, displaying a narrow-minded view of history. He is a Yoruba man. And true to type, he complains and demands sympathy and agreement from other passengers, "so that it doesn't seem like he is the only one that cannot stop complaining."

I found it quite irritating that his voice thundered over the soft lilting tones of Tems on the radio, overwhelmed the cultured accent of the rich kid in the back, and left very little space for Mrs Important sitting in front of him. 

Ah, Mrs Important. I give her the nickname because she has demanded it, right from the onset. She has queried the driver, the stragglers in the park, the bus attendants and the other passengers. She is going to Ibadan and doesn't want to be late arriving home and so anybody that did not make the bus for Lagos that had left by 6am was quite unfortunate. 

The Complainer had nodded his head in eager agreement. She had bobbed her head too, happy to have an ally who fit her specifications: Yoruba, elderly, proud alumnus of some old school in Ibadan, and possessing a complaining identity.

And so, they become friends, talking about their glory days in secondary school and linking their family trees and buying onions and beans and rice and kuli kuli somewhere before Lokoja.

I do not know what became of their friendship, whether it continued to blossom in the stifling air conditioned air of that sixteen-seater bus, or maybe it died as quickly as it was formed when they got to Ibadan. 

I did wonder if they were able to shake hands properly afterwards.

The End.

This micro story is in no way meant to shame people living with disabilities. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. I apologize if this offends you or triggers some unpleasantness. 

P.S. Most of this story is true.

photo by Shiva Smyth on Pexels.