Suicide

"E go better one dayyy.

My people, make we dey strong.

If all of us stand strong,

We fit be like broom wey dey bend but no fit break. Abi?"

Tedgiri watched his mother move from one market woman to another,

 embracing each of them with a warmth that somehow survived the smoke

 still hanging in the air.

The smell of burnt wood, melted plastic, and soaked fabric lingered over

 Balogun Market like a stubborn cloud. Where bustling stalls had stood only

 hours earlier, there were now blackened pillars, twisted roofing sheets,

 and mountains of ash. Women who had once argued over prices now sat 

on the ground staring into nothingness, their livelihoods reduced to smoke.

He was only five years old.

Yet, somehow, he understood that life had changed.

He could not explain it, but he knew that whenever adults became

 this quiet, something precious had been lost.

He watched his mother hug each woman in turn.

Anyone arriving at that moment would have assumed she was the wife

 of the community chairman paying a condolence visit.

She wasn't.

Her shop had been the very first to catch fire.

The flames had raced from stall to stall until the entire section of the

 market became an inferno. Now there was nothing left.

Nothing but ashes. Nothing but memories.

Tedgiri quietly looked down at his worn-out sandals. He already knew 

what came next. One meal a day. No biscuits except on special occasions.

Perhaps no school next term.

It had happened before.

He had spent one whole term learning from the neighbour's children 

because there wasn't enough money for school fees.

"Tedgiri..." his mother called gently.

He looked up.

"Are you hungry?"

He nodded.

Without hesitation, she searched the pocket of her wrapper until she

 found a faded five-hundred-naira note.

"Go and buy one pack of Fab biscuit. Tell Mummy Divine to give you one 

sachet of water. I'll pay her later."

He smiled and ran off.

Children still found reasons to smile, even in tragedy.

By the time he returned, journalists had surrounded his mother.

Microphones were stretched toward her.

Cameras captured every detail.

She stood in the middle of the crowd with Tedgiri balanced on her waist.

He stretched out the biscuit for her to pray over it.

She kissed his forehead instead and continued speaking.

"We are calling on Nigerians to help us. This market is our livelihood.

It is what keeps food on our tables.

It is what keeps many women from begging, stealing, or selling their 

dignity just to survive.

For three years this shop fed my son and me. Today... everything is gone.

President Tinubu, these market buildings have become dangerous. 

They are old and falling apart. We need safer places to trade.

Governor Babajide, please hear our cry. I graduated with a degree in

 Economics. I searched for work but found none.

This market became my office. Now even that has disappeared.

Please... help us."

Her voice broke, not because she wanted sympathy.

But because exhaustion had finally caught up with courage.

The story spread online. Influencers reposted the videos.

Many people promised assistance. In the end, only one hundred thousand

 naira reached her.

She paid Tedgiri's school fees first.

Then she bought rice, beans, garri, and a few household necessities.

The remaining thirty thousand naira she hid carefully inside an old wrapper.

She called it her "hospital money."

Children fell sick.

Life happened.

Preparation was survival.

Whenever neighbours visited, they always said the same thing.

"Mummy Tedgiri... we're so sorry."

She would laugh before they could pity her.

"Oh... na Baba God hand we dey.

My God na the God of two seconds."

Then she would sing worship songs while sweeping the house.

Tedgiri believed everything was alright.

That was exactly how she wanted it.

Children should not inherit burdens before they inherited dreams.

But every smile she wore cost her another piece of her heart.

Eventually...

There were no pieces left.

One afternoon she picked up her phone. She called every contact she had.

Friends. Former classmates. Customers. Relatives. Church members.

No one answered.

To some she had become "beggie beggie."

To others...

"The poor market woman."

"The lower-class woman."

Loneliness soon became louder than hunger.

She tried visiting neighbours instead.

Doors opened just enough for conversations to happen through narrow spaces.

Smiles became shorter.

Invitations disappeared.

Some feared she would ask for money.

Others simply didn't want to be associated with a woman who smelled 

of fish, smoke, and hard labour.

As though poverty were contagious.

As though dignity belonged only to those with full bank accounts.

But she was human, and humans break down too.

Human beings eventually collapse when forced to carry mountains alone.

One rainy afternoon, a neighbour called to tell her:

"Please help me bring my clothes inside before the rain ruins them."

The woman who had been the community power- ranger, who always

 rescued everyone else's clothes... Did not answer.

The phone rang again.

And again.

Nothing.

That same afternoon, Tedgiri walked home from school beneath the rain.

His uniform clung to his tiny body.

His teeth chattered.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked harder. Still nothing.

He waited outside, sitting on the pavement and watched the rain drops 

send ripples through the little flood that had formed on the pathway.

One hour flowed bye.

Then another.

Through the window he spotted his mother's only pair of slippers.

She was home.

She must have fallen asleep.

He squeezed himself carefully through the burglary-proof bars and 

dropped into the tiny room.

"Mummy?"

Silence.

She lay on the floor.

Eyes open.

Face turned toward the ceiling.

The smile he loved so much had disappeared forever.

"Good afternoon, Mummy."

Silence answered again.

In that unbearable stillness, one can almost imagine her soul crying out...

"I'm sorry.

I fought as long as I could.

Please forgive me.

I became tired.

I only wanted a better life for you."

But no living ears could hear those words.

The little boy quietly lay beside her. Cold, hungry, confused.

Eventually...

He fell asleep. He dreamed of angels.

He dreamed they stretched out their hands toward him.

Believing his mother had already gone ahead, he reached out his tiny arms

 and followed them. But it was only a dream, and surely, he'd meet with

reality.

---

ORATOR

How tragic it is to wake up and discover that a colleague is gone.

A neighbour is gone. A classmate is gone.

Someone whose laughter filled every room...

Gone.

How many times did they quietly ask for help while pretending to be okay?

How many warning signs did we dismiss because everyone expected

 them to "be strong"?

Pain does not always scream.

Sometimes... It smiles. Sometimes it serves others.

Sometimes it encourages everyone else while quietly dying inside.

Kindness is not expensive. Compassion is not weakness.

Hospitality is not outdated. Sometimes the table you lay, the meal you share...

The phone call you return... The visit you make...

Or simply sitting beside someone without judging them...

Can become the very reason they choose to keep fighting to see 

another day. You give them something rare. Hope.

If someone tells you they are overwhelmed, don't shame them.

Listen.

If it's money you have to offer, give it.

If you can open a door of opportunity, open it.

If all you can offer is your presence, offer it wholeheartedly.

Never underestimate what genuine love can do.

And if you are the one carrying unbearable pain...

Please don't carry it alone. Speak to someone you trust.

Reach out to family, a close friend, a pastor, or a qualified mental

 health professional.

Tell God exactly how you feel. He is not offended by honest tears.

He is close to the brokenhearted.

You may not see a way forward today, but today's darkness does not

 determine tomorrow's sunrise.

Your life matters. You matter. Hold on.

One conversation... One act of kindness... One answered prayer...

One opportunity... Can change the course of an entire life.

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