I Built a Whole Philosophy to Avoid Giving Out ₦200

Despite being extremely careless, I like to think that my life follows some core principles. For example, I don't get into fights with people. I respect my elders. I try to be honest in my dealings with women. I eat beans at least once a week. I try not to have more than one arch foe at a time. I always update my FPL on Saturday mornings. I try to always have a charged power bank. And I don't give alms on the street.

That last one may seem a bit selfish, but my reasoning for it is straightforward. People who beg on the street do it as a job. Their Oro Aje1, as Yorubas say, is begging people to give them money. If I give someone money today, they will turn around and beg the very next person for money. On some days, I am certain they may even earn more than me by preying on the pity people have for them.

In a former area, I remember some man — with two working arms and two working legs — stood endlessly at the bus stop with his hand motioning to his mouth. That was his gig; his Oro Aje, and people gave him money. This fellow was usually dressed like a beggar too, and only wore a pair of tattered sandals that might be older than poor Elewa!

One day, we received news, complete with pictures, of how this "poor fellow" ate like a king at shops miles away. This time, he didn't wear tattered sandals but sharp slippers that people say might have been imported from Italy. This time, he didn't wear a dull striped shirt that might have seen better days; instead, he wore a sharp shirt that you may have called a good bargain at any air-conditioned boutique. And when he took his hands to his mouth, it wasn't in a beggarly fashion; this time, he was holding a juicy turkey thigh.

Everyone who heard of this miracle at the bus stop bemoaned it and cursed the man. How could he, they wondered. How could a beggar have the guts to eat such good food and wear such good clothes! Many of the people who contributed to his nylon bag on sunny Lagos days did not even have the money to eat and dress like that. They just did theirs for God. So, dear reader, they asked, how could he?

My answer? How could he not? When a fellow gets into his work clothes and goes to work, we do not assume that he would attend his daughter's marriage in those clothes. Why should it not be the same for beggars who, more than conventional workers, depend on appearance? A beggar, by virtue of their profession, wants to be pitied, mocked, and had mercy on.

"Dress the way you want to be addressed" is a popular Nigerianism drummed into our heads as kids to stop eight and nine-year-old girls from being addressed as sluts — though eight and nine-year-old boys can dress like gang-stars and be handed toy guns. If this Nigerianism is true, then why do we expect the beggar not to dress the way they want to be addressed? Isn't this just a rational course of events? Or whom amongst us would ever offer alms to someone better dressed than us, even if the fellow were in more danger of hunger and homelessness and penury? Does that not say something about the very act of alms-giving anyway?

Isn't there some sort of exchange happening between the beggar and the giver? The beggar collects the money and offers some virtue to the giver — for the giver may now think himself a proper and kind man for giving. Imagine that! If you are ever feeling bad about your miserly and wicked ways, and if your conscience is ever threatening to murder your brain in your bed, you can just stand up and offer some money to a beggar for some virtue. And when that pang bites the back of your brain once more, you can laugh and smile and think; oh, come off it — aren't I a good man? Did I not give that lowly beggar two hundred naira yesterday?

One of my fondest childhood memories is, in fact, of that hue, though it was brought about through a different impetus. There I was, an up-and-coming rascal of seven, minding my business. And then, for some reason, my siblings started speaking of how nice they were. It's a good thing to be nice, I thought, and I also proclaimed that I was also nice, kind, and not selfish. Oh really, one asked. You are not selfish? When have you ever done something not selfish? Now that I think of it, what a stupid question. Seven-year-olds are supposed to be extravagantly selfish. Why not? I should have shaken my head and said then what I say now; Yes I am, what of it?

But I didn't. I tried in vain to protest my innocence at this charge. How could I, a good boy like me, be selfish? That tag belonged to other boys who did not love God. My siblings, devilish fiends that they are, refused my protests. However, they told me I could prove my selflessness that night by performing a simple task.

Now, a detour to explain the socio-economics of my home at the time. Every night, we ate a hearty meal and got a piece of fish or meat. That was the event I looked forward to the most as a young boy. Finally getting to taste that fish was the highlight of my day. You have to understand that it was the biggest deal to me. Back to my story.

That night, as I received my night meal and made a beeline for my tiny round fish, my sibling rode up to me like some demon in a Disney movie. Oh, what a delicious-looking piece of fish, he said.

What would a selfless person do when they have such a nice and tasty piece of fish on their plate? Would they not divide it into half and give their dear sibling one? At this point, the unfortunate fellow had already eaten their own fish and had an empty plate. It was such a transparently stupid ruse, but one I fell for all the same. I was adamant I was not a selfish boy (because to be selfish would be to be bad, and I was certainly not bad!), so I steeled my trembling fingers and cut the fish into two. I took one part and gave my sibling the other part.

Ah, victory at last! I'd won the argument! No one could seriously call me a selfish boy any longer! But imagine my shock when I tried to proclaim my virtue to everyone else the next day, and they seemed bored to death about it. No pomp, no pageantry for this extraordinarily selfless boy! Nothing. No one cared at all. I imagine that this is the exact same scenario that plays through the minds of a regular customer of the beggar.

Ah, victory at last! No one can seriously call me uncaring or unkind now! I have given this beggar some money. As always, I am aware that I may just be extensively psychoanalyzing these poor people, many of whom are moved to almsgiving only by pity and not much else. But where is the fun not in that?

Anyway, my argument is thus: my lowly two hundred naira, if I can gather that much, will do nothing to the life of the professional beggar and his bottom line. It will not save him from death and will not provide him shelter. It is merely a rounding error, and he will not think much of it whether or not I drop it. It is a temporary solution to a permanent problem, and in other words, useless.

Secondly, I cannot endlessly give out my hard-earned and hard-fought and hard-sought money. And beggars are very prolific. If one gives beggar A on Beggar street money, beggar B immediately senses an opportunity for returns; as what is a better predictor of any random person giving alms than their previous almsgiving? I cannot satisfy all beggars, and must leave some unsatisfied, lest I become a beggar on Beggar street myself. If some must necessarily be left unsatisfied, why not all be left unsatisfied? Besides, isn't that the logic of many atheists? If some Gods are false, well then all Gods can be false.

I did not cause the misfortune of these people, so why should I have the moral obligation to solve it? And should I still have that moral obligation when I cannot even solve it, and my attempt is nothing but a drop in the ocean? Again, I am perfectly aware that this would sound like psychotic talk to people who have had their pity preyed on cancerously by hardened professionals. But it is nonetheless true. So when children walk up to me and spread their hands for money, I lock the empathetic part of my brain and move on. They have survived thus far without my charity, and will continue to survive without it.

So how do you do your charity, you may ask. First of all, I am a charity case, and I do not mean this lightly. There are many days where the future seems so uncertain that I convince myself to stock up on Garri and sugar for the adult-Kwashiorkor-inducing journey ahead.

Secondly, when I feel generous enough for charity, I give my money to my family members and members of the working public. For example, I try not to haggle with workmen and traders. I do not seek to win an advantage of 5% of the price of what I buy, even when I know that it is there for the taking.

Haters, enemies, and foes (of which there are many) may say this is because of my chronic social dysfunction, and that may be true. But what is also true is that at the end of the day, the trader, workman, or someone else has extra money in their pocket than would have otherwise not been there. This sort of charity is more amenable to me because it does not reward the act of begging and instead rewards productive activity. Think of it as an extra tip. That is my charity, and I am content with it.

At least I am not like many who contribute, while using a lovely leg-gediz Benz, to buy exotic cars for their pastors and give a tenth of their earnings into a black hole and provides nothing but professionally crafted platitudes. On the balance of things, I'd rather be the Bishop-chain-wearing sweet mouth talker on the pulpit than be the poor sucker who has to contribute his almost-last kobo to buy Papa a Rolls Royce!

Even if you don't agree with my conclusion, you have to agree that I put a lot of thought into it. I don't give alms not because I am selfish or wicked, but because I have thought deeply about it and found the reasons to give alms uncompelling.

At least that is what I thought.

A few days ago, while I aimlessly walked about in a bid to hit my steps goal for the day, I saw a woman hawking food. There was nothing special about this woman, and I did not notice her at first. As she walked in front of me, she came across a beggar and his sidekick in a wheelchair. The beggar was in the wheelchair begging with pleading hands and eyes, and she walked past. But she turned back, and with the food still on her head, she went through her purse and gave this wheelchair-bound fellow money. I walked past this same beggar, and could not bring it in me to give him money.

I insist that I am a charity case and deserve alms as well. This is indisputable at this point of my life. But this food hawker is most certainly a bigger charity case than me. She probably lives in a horrible one-room apartment and lives from hand to mouth.

Even poor Elewa, for all his poverty, has never had to hawk. Yet this hawker, who has probably suffered some of the worst indignities the world has to offer, still found it in her heart to give this beggar some money. Yet stupid Elewa would write ten thousand pages arguing why it is totally correct and okay for him to categorically ignore beggars. If someone who's suffered that much in her life, especially in this economy, can still give alms; what excuse do I have? Aren't my excuses just an attempt for me to continue in my miserliness?

I know, even now, that my argument still holds water. My alms are nothing but a temporary solution to a permanent problem. I will still leave many beggars unsatisfied. Yet the humanity that that food seller showed me still cannot get out of my mind. If she can give alms to beggars, despite being so poor, what excuse do I have?

So I have updated my list of principles. I don't get into fights with people. I respect my elders. I try to be honest in my dealings with women. I eat beans at least once a week. I try not to have more than one arch foe at a time. I always update my FPL on Saturday mornings. I try to always have a charged power bank. And I now give alms to the disabled and children when I can.

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