I lived in one of the slums of Lagos mainland. My house could be classified as what the local called “Face me, I face you” style of building, however, mine was a bit different from the norm. At the edge of the corridor was the gutter, part of which was covered with wooden planks and the rest left open. The sight was not pretty, but, we got used to it.

Ours were plights of rooms, lined up unevenly. Inbetween the rolls of rooms was an unsteady path which spread across the entire length of our corridor. Looking up, you could see the sky which I felt was a great advantage. The path only divided the rooms and their chronological arrangement.

 I grew up in a city, a megacity, but in one of its poorest slums. My house sat next to the rich and famous in our community. It was next to a great road network, beaches, industries and the whos of the society.

Among my neighbours was a middle-aged man who never spoke to anyone. It was a lousy house packed with individuals of views and orientations. As I child, I was always wary of this man so were the other children. He never visited anyone and no one visited him. He was always dressed formally.

This man, however, had a crisply clean home. He was single, he lived alone and tantalizing aroma of fresh foods always come out of the little kitchenette he built for himself in front of his little room. He never spoke to my parents along with other parents in the neighbourhood. He was always grumpy.

I got used to him in a funny way, all the children in the neighbourhood avoided him, he was a barber by profession and he had a little shop across the road which girls were not allowed to visit. This was a strict rule he made in accordance with his belief. He had a speaker which he made good use of. 

As a teenager, I often found myself wondering what a life this man had, he was too serious about life, strictly keeping to himself. One day, as he walked past me, I greeted him, this was spontaneous and to my utter surprise, he answered.

The next day, I repeated the greeting and to everyone’s amazement, he responded. This practice continued and he called me by my name one day. I was totally gobsmacked!

After a while, we became close. I became his young friend. I saw a different person in him. I found out a lot about this man, I became his confidant. I helped with chores. He told funny stories, he cracked many jokes. He was fun of life. I got to know his philosophy about life.

Every night saw me in his shop talking and listening to his stories, I came to know of his woes of life, his tales about his family, his childhood and the challenges he faced as a person. The rejection he witnessed from his close family. Seeing us together, I was his granddaughter to a stranger.

My friend died at the age of 71 and I was with him on his sickbed. We had good laugh before his death, he was never married and he had no children of his own. He was a good man, not the monster I felt I knew when I was younger.

Everyone has a story to tell. Our experiences in life sometimes affect our relationship with people around us. Before judging anyone, think of their stories, get to know them and you might be dancing to different tunes. We all have a story in us.