04/06/2025
DID I ASK YOU FOR HELP?
It was on a hot afternoon in mid-October of 2005. I was running a Masters degree Program at the Premier University of Ibadan. My roommate and I had just returned from lectures barely an hour earlier. I laid on my bed in our 4 by 6 private hostel room which housed two students with just one window barely sufficient for good aeration.
While Anny was busy glancing through some assignments we needed to deliver by the following Monday, I listened to one of my favourite oldie musics. My head swerved from side to side in line with the rhythm of the song, but got stuck at about 27 degrees once the loud noise of two squabbling guys trickled into the room...
Like some remotely-controlled robots, we sprinted 🏃♀️🏃♀️out of the room to have a first-hand view of the source of this deafening noise. So it was that one of the guys (let’s call him Tira) was demanding a payback of some monies he had lent the other (call him Dat) for over 6 months which payment terms had been breached. Like we would later learn, Dat and Tira were both 100-level students at the Computer Science Department, University of Ibadan.
We looked on as hot exchanges reverberated through the air. Then suddenly, Tira held Dat by the neck. Ha! I moved swiftly. “Please stop!”, I pleaded, unsure of what could happen next as they stood at the mouth of the staircase. “I will beat you up and throw you down these stairs if you don’t pay my money now!”, Tira threatened. “You can’t do anything!”, Dat retorted. “How much did I even borrow from you that you’re making noise?- ordinary N1,500 o”, Dat continued.
In anger and disbelief, I rolled my eyes 👀 at Dat, trying to signal to him to be quiet, but he would have none of it. The shouting match continued and I kept watching as Tira tried to push Dat down like he threatened while Dat struggled like one with a waddling gait.
In twinkling seconds, I dashed back to my room, searched around for my petite handbag where I had kept N2,500, the left-over from the N4,000 monthly pocket money my fiancé usually sent to me. I always ensured I didn’t spend it all should his next salary be delayed. So I often tried to push till the month end so I could save a minimum of N1,000. As soon as I found the bag, I rushed out and met them still on it.
“Here, have this”, I said to Tira, handing him N1,500 so he could let Dat go. “God saved you today”, Tira mumbled as he finally released Dat who was now left with some unnerving neck pain. Tira left, squeezing the notes into his back-pocket which was already half-torn. Then Dat also walked away from the scene without uttering a word. As he walked off, I went after him, saying “Please I only lent you that money because I didn’t want him to hurt you. Please try and pay back by November”. He looked me up and down and asked: “Did I ask you for help?”
How did I feel at that moment? No, not angry but quite irritated. Irritated at his haughtiness, boorishness, and ingratitude. However, I decided I would ask again after 2 weeks. I kept asking but his response didn’t change- “Did I ask you for help?”
Fast forward to December 15 when school activities were winding up, my roommate rushed in to ask if Dat had paid my money. When I answered in the negative, she pulled my hand and dragged me out of the room to the balcony, pointing forwards and downwards👉👇.
“What?!!!”, 🙄I screamed when I saw Dat packing his bags into a G-Wagon parked in front of our 12-room private hostel. Not minding my bare footedness, I rushed down the staircase and found my way to the car.
There, I met an elderly man who looked like someone in his fifties with some tint of grey hair finely laid like carpet grass across his chin. His skin appeared silky, the similitude of one with a wealthy and comfortable life. I paid him some courtesy, and in a bid to focus on what took me there, moved very close to Dat and asked in a hush tone for the money. I told him I would need the money to enable me transport myself home for Christmas.
“What is your problem and why are you trying to embarrass me?!!!”, Dat blurted. I went silent as the front passenger door of the car opened, letting out a light-skinned and elegantly gorgeous lady. She had some obviously expensive spectacles on. She walked past me without so much of attention, got to her son and in a stylishly condescending manner, dangled her forefinger towards me while asking “who is she and what does she want?”
And Dat, with a stammer developed within a few seconds, stuttered…”she’s…she’s eerm… one of the girls in this hostel” “So what does she want?”, she asked again. This time, I didn’t wait for him- I quickly helped myself: “Good afternoon Ma, I lent your son N1,500 about 2 months ago and he’s yet to pay me. I need the money to travel home for Christmas”.
“My son?! N1,500?! That can’t be true! Do you know who we are??? Do you know how much he gets as pocket money every month? Are you just trying to feed off us? Can’t you talk?” This barrage of questions and many more poured out of Madam’s oral cavity within 60 seconds. I was confused as to which of the questions I should respond to.
“Hello young lady, how did this happen?”, a question from the handsome dad at last jolted me from my lost thoughts. So I explained it exactly as it happened, he looked at his son disdainfully, hissed, shook his head like a disappointed father would, went to his car, got his purse and handed me 2 fresh mints of N1,000 note.
“Thank you Sir, but I will need to go upstairs to get you the N500 change”. I said. “Never mind, young lady; you can have it all” he said. And I left. As I walked off, I took a last look backwards as I could swear the angry eyes of Dat’s mum were literarily shredding me to pieces. And, I was right! “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree after all” I thought to myself.
After this saga, I promised myself I would never render a help I wasn’t asked, never again. Have I kept my promise? Your guess is as good as mine. Many times, I find myself jumping forward to render unsolicited help and I keep getting hurt each time with each episode ending with the same question or its relative- “Did I ask you for help?”.
Following a very bitter experience on this issue, I sat to appraise all the situation and came up with the following learning points:
1. Never say to anyone who has once helped you: “Are you God?” In case you’ve forgotten, s/he’s like God. S/he was made in the IMAGE and LIKENESS of God so it’s expected s/he behaves LIKE God and expects gratitude.
2. Never say to one who came to your rescue in your time of need: “Did I ask you for help?”. It hurts terribly. God hears and He may ensure you never again get help in time of need
3. You can never truly repay a help rendered you in your time of greatest need- unless you are saying that you can pay back the sacrifice/self-denial made by your helper; the compassion with which the help was rendered; and the timeliness of the help
4. Never say to one who has helped you financially: “how much did you spend on me? I’ll pay you”. The value of the currency today is not what it was when you were helped
5. Have you ever helped anyone? Don’t feel guilty for wanting appreciation: it’s in our nature to do so. Appreciation appreciates the virtue; lack of it depreciates the virtue
6. Have you been of help to someone in the past? Inasmuch as they need to be grateful, do not cage them in the prison of gratitude. Help them feel true appreciation rather than indebtedness. Don’t be quick to say at every opportunity: “I was the one who helped her/him”. Allow God repay you. It was a privilege given to you by God.
7. Before you decide to help, always seek God’s face. You are not El-Shaddai. You can’t help everyone, else, you shall die. Sometimes, your decision to help may be a disruption of God’s program for the person’s life. You don’t want to be caught in the middle of that. Ask for discerning spirit
8. When God says: "Don't help", obey. Don't let your need for recognition overshadow the necessity to obey God. He wants to help the person in His own way. Let Him do it. He won't share His glory with anyone.
Copied Josephine Muyiwa-Afolabi
Thank you for sharing ❤️👏
A repost.
