I returned to Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, after college graduation. I had been there before my mother became a minister.
Two weeks later, I told my mother I was bored. She said, "Here're the car keys. Go and buy some fruit." Delighted, I jumped into the car and speeded off.
Seeing me or rather my car, a boy quickly ran up to me, eager to sell his bananas and nuts. "Banana 300 naira. Nuts 200 naira!" I bargained him down to 200 total for the fruit and nuts. When he agreed, I handed him a 500 naira note. He didn't have change, so I told him not to worry. He said thanks and smiled a row of perfect teeth.
When, two weeks later, I ran into this same boy, I was more aware of my position in Nigerian society where it wasn't that uncommon to see a little boy who should have been in school selling fruit in the burning sun. My parents had raised me to be aware of the advantage we had been afforded and the responsibility it brought to us.
"What's up?" I asked him. "I…I don't have money to buy books." I took out two 500 naira notes. He looked around nervously before taking the money. One thousand naira means a lot to a family that makes only 50,000 each year.
The next morning, an officer told me, "In this place, when you give a little, people think you're a fountain of chance." Possibly it's right, but this happens everywhere in the world. I wondered if my little friend had actually used the money for books.
After six months' work in northern Nigeria, I returned and saw him again standing on the road.
"Are you in school now?" I asked.
He nodded.
A silence fell as we looked at each other, and then I realized what he wanted. I held out a 500 naira note. "Take this." He shook his head fiercely and stepped back as if hurt. "What's wrong? I asked. "It's a gift."
Shaking his head again, he handed me a basket of bananas and nuts before he said, "I've been waiting to give these to you."
