The palm trees were whistling with the wind. The air was fresh, and the sun had decided not to be brutal this afternoon.
“Ah! Finally, some peace!” I said, feeling suffocated from all the help I’d had to lend people. I mean, I need help too. I’d been hearing my name from every corner.
“Angel, can you help me with syntax? Angel, can you help me with Philosophy?”
“Can we read the poetry course together?”
“Can you help me with this? Can you help me with that?”
They couldn’t even pity my poor legs.
“Aish! My legs are aching!” I touched them to feel the sore spots. “Aishhhh!”
Angel, in your life, never stand up to answer a question during lectures, okay? Just stay quiet. And don’t write your essays well.
Okayyy.
This is me, sitting on a bench, relaxing in the rest zone of my university—a row of benches with handles for students to sit on, found along the road, guarded by tall, beautiful palm trees that give shade. Giving myself a pep talk.
Just behave dumb. Even if you emerged as the Overall Best Graduating Student during your secondary school days...
“Aishhh! My shoulder hurts!” I groaned, pressing my shoulders.
Truce slid onto the bench as quietly as a snake. I didn’t even notice he was there. You might be asking, “Who is Truce?” Truce is my course mate—laughed at for his “Papi” fashion sense, but known and loved by about fifty percent of the students in my school. He was that social. He also had a really nice singing voice. He was always in high spirits, but that afternoon I saw him sad.
He had a book with him. He just flipped through it and kept sighing. I tilted my head to observe his face. My first instinct was to ask what was wrong, but I didn’t want to help anyone again. I’d had enough. My help engine was knocked out. He kept sighing and throwing his curled lips here and there. I just turned to the other side, minding my business.
“Hey! I know you.”
“What?” I turned in a dash, surprised by his outburst.
“Can you teach me this?” he said in a very calm tone, pointing to the poetry book in his hand—well, a book that taught poetry.
God, help you with what again? I said in my head.
“You know...” he began.
Why is he suddenly talking like he wants to tell the story of his life or give me advice? But anyways, I was paying attention.
“I know you would say in your mind, ‘But it’s just poetry. It’s quite simple.’ Simple for you, but not simple for me.” He said it sounding like one of those lackadaisical Americans—the “it is what it is” kind of people.
Did you come here to ask for help or what? I thought, rolling my eyes, thinking he was arrogant. But his voice was calm again.
“I... I was like you. Intelligent. People came to me for help with their academics. But...”
He told me the story of the life-changing accident that happened to him years ago as a teenager—how he bashed his head harshly against a bike and had a head injury that wiped out his memory.
Hearing the story, I was even more angry—but not at him this time. At life.
Like, thanks, Mr. Life, or whatever they call you, I thought. Why must life be hard for some people and good for others? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why can’t everyone be rich, healthy, and a genius? Why do some have to be praised for using their God-given brain—like the brain was created by them in the first place? Why do some have to swim in wealth while others beg and beg to eat and see the light of day?
I taught him. This time, from the bottom of my heart. And he left like a happy duckling. I wondered if I was helping him out of pity. The last thing people want is pity. I know why I said that.
Anyways... it seemed my body had already calmed down from all the aches from earlier on.
“Hmmm,” I inhaled the fresh air blowing at my face.
That evening I got back home. I wrote in my journal. The story was worth a journal entry. I concluded by saying:
Maybe the unfairness in this world is the real test of human love. God is saying, don’t just love your neighbour—love him with all his flaws, all his mistakes, regardless of who he is or what he has gotten. Sometimes we do not just need the success story to inspire us; even the story of one still struggling can inspire us.
Now, isn’t that lovely?
