The Sunday Guest
Like every other Sunday since the Nze’s moved to their new house, about three years ago, they anticipate silently the coming of Humphery Chigodi, a man they had only met on their first day of moving in, and he had been so pleased to lend both his arms and legs to assist them in taking their luggage and furniture from the trunk of the car to the house.
Stanley Nze had thought it such a generous thing for a stranger to do for another stranger, so extended an invitation to their first Sunday meal in the new house.
But Humphery was not only passing by on the eve the Nze’s moved in. No, it was not by a matter of chance that he was there.
Humphrey was a homeless beggar with some blurry spots of dignity on his dusty white short-sleeved T-shirt and brown cargo trousers, who had been sitting at his usual spot at a corner close enough for him to take a peak and catch the Nze’s as they offloaded. He would tell himself he wasn't receiving a service for free if he ever offered a service.
After one Sunday meal at the Nze’s, Humphery promised his tongue to a threat every Sunday, and after seven Sundays of having Humphery at their table, the Nze’s decided to add an extra piece of meat and a cup of rice more to their usual measuring.
This Sunday as they sat to have lunch, Humphrey was presented with the news of Chika - the first child- leaving the family soon to go study abroad.
“Wow! That is good” he said with a mouth full of chicken meat he was struggling to chew, and looked across the table at Chika, putting his hand up to show a thumbs-up.
“What will she be studying?” he asked Stanley.
“Business Law” Mrs Nze said softly, hinting also at a bit of pride.
“That's good, that's good” Humphery nodded. “Well when you get there, do yourself good and get a job too,” he said to Chika.
At that, the Nze’s squirmed at him and shared glances between themselves as if to say “The nerve of him to speak about getting a job”.
“Why’s that?” Stanley inquired on their behalf.
Still packed with food, he managed to make words seep through them.
“Because” he started “out there, kids your age work or they're sent away from their father's house”
“How do you know this?” Mrs Nze asked now.
“Personal experience”.
“What do you mean?”
Now, Humphrey felt the need to pause at his meal to entertain a moment of confused glances that questioned his words.
“Hmm,” he rolled his eyes, “have you met, ever, a beggar in the street who speaks eloquently as I do?”
The Nze’s have never before now given serious thought to why Humphrey spoke neatly, even more than most of the people they were acquainted with. Observing each person in their seat as they shook their heads in response to his query, he also noticed the spark of intrigue in their eyes.
“My father is one of them foreign people” he began to unravel, placing at their fingertips, the pieces of his puzzle “When I turned eighteen, he came to visit my mom and I, here in Nigeria. Since he was the one sending money for our feeding and our rent, he told my mom and I that I would need to go find a job. I was only out of secondary school and looked forward to entering the university like the rest of my pairs. I told him that, but all he said was ‘get a job, get a degree, and get out of my house’. My mother wouldn’t have it, but what was she to do? She could barely keep up any of the bills, let alone afford our rent if she insisted on keeping me. I had to leave and fend for myself”.
“By begging?” came the little voice of Ifeanyi, the last child of the Nze’s.
Humphrey looked at the kid, and smiled “It is much easier than getting a job. It is easy for the average African man to drop twenty naira each time he passes a beggar than it is for him to give him a job. You know why?” he asked and looked around the table for anyone with an answer but they all looked back at him with blank stares.
“Because” he continued, “the average African man derives pleasure in knowing that out there, there is someone he's better off than” he finished, smiling and nodding at them, before continuing once again with his food.
“That still doesn't make begging a better trade” Mrs Nze countered after seconds of carefully thinking.
“No, it doesn't, but it sure makes me richer” he laughed a loud laugh, took hold of the Coca-Cola bottle by his side, and drank a gulp of the dark liquid.
For the second time since they started eating, the Nze’s glanced at each other as if on cue, then Stanley took the lead to speak their minds.
“How?” Stanley asked.
“Oh Mr. Stanley, I might be a beggar, but I am no fool. Out of every naira that falls into my bowl, I make do with only what I need to feed, on days that aren’t Sundays, thanks to you. I have no house so I don’t have any need to pay for rent or light. No beggar has a phone, so I have no need for that either. So long as I can eat and drink clean water, I have no need to spend, so I save”.
“You save?” Stanley blurted in shock.
“Of course!”
“How's that even possible? Don't you need like receipt of NEPA bill, a phone number and all that to open a bank account?” Mrs Nze asked skeptically.
“That would be the case, if I saved with the bank” Humphery winked at her.
“Where then do you save your money?” Chika asked.
“Oh my dear, I would tell you, but the good book said to trust no man”.
“But, I'm not a man” Chika smiled, and he smiled back at her, impressed with her smart scheme, but not budging.
When lunch was over, the Nze’s, packing an extra plate of rice for his dinner, bade Humphrey farewell as he returned to his corner.
After that Sunday’s lunch at the Nze’s, Humphrey did not return, and after two Sundays, the Nze’s realized that not only was he absent in their home on Sundays, he no longer stayed at his corner.
“Maybe he has migrated. Found somewhere better to beg” Stanley concluded.
About seven Sundays later, a package arrived at the Nze’s by DHL. It was a set of fine china tea cups and a note from Humphrey written in thin scrofulous handwriting. In the note, he said:
‘Dear Stanley,
First, I apologize for leaving without any proper farewell. I have for long made plans to take my mum away from the mercies of my father, and once my nairas counted up to fifty million, I decided it was time.
I now own a house and live with my mum. I also own a small provision shop. Though I have begged my way into the wealth I now have, I do not intend to beg my way into sustaining it.
I am happy and so is my mum. I told her about your generosity, sharing your home and meal with me every Sunday and she said she would like to meet you and I would love to host you.
So if you ever decide to visit, you can come to the address attached at the head of this letter.
And oh, I have a phone now. If it pleases you, I would like to hear from you and your family, so call me on this number 09034475208.
I hope you like my little gift to you and I hope we may reunite soon like we did those Sundays.
Yours,
Humphrey.’
Stanley scoffed after reading the letter, “The scoundrel!” he said, yet smiling. He reached for his phone, and dialed the number on the letter.
