The life of a poor man

Mike groaned. He had been held up in traffic for the past two hours. His passengers had already started grumbling, agitated from being stuck on that spot for so long. Once in a while, someone would shout or bark at him from the back, asking why they had been stuck there for that amount of time, and he would roll his eyes and reply in the same, monotonous and flat voice - “sorry, sir. We'll be out of here soon."

https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-busy-road-in-the-city-10543075/

He hoped silently that the gridlock would soon loosen, but it just seemed to tighten the more. With a sigh, he opened the door and got down from the driver's seat. He had decided to go further front on foot, to ascertain the cause of the ‘hold-up'. No sooner had he alighted than the engine of the next car whirred to life. In the next moment, the vehicles in front were moving. He turned to get back into his van, but his passengers were already bickering and filling his ears with shouts of “incompetent driver, where has he gone?" and “Driver! Where are you?". He hurried into his seat, and closed the door with a bang, wincing as the door jammed into place. He had to stop doing that.

He turned the key, and the engine hummed lazily, before going quiet. He did it again. The same thing happened. He was scared to look back at the passengers, but he didn't need to. First, one voice. Then another. And another. Soon, the whole van was barking at him, scolding him for putting a non- functional hunk of metal on the road, as if it wasn't this ‘non-functional hunk of metal' that had brought them to that point. He turned the key again and again. It wasn't working. He groaned loudly. He had no choice. He searched in the glove compartment for a screwdriver and pliers, and finding them, set to work.
In mere minutes, he was done, and ready to hot-wire the van. By now, the motorists behind him were already blaring their horns angrily. Please work, he thought. Eyes closed, he touched the wires together. The engine coughed and groaned, sputtering for moments before finally coming to life. He heaved a heavy sigh of relief, and drove off.

Soon, it was evening and he was ready to close for the day. He had already spent a good chunk of the day's earnings at the mechanic's workshop, where he had gone to repair the ignition system, but he had to go to the market. The food store at home was virtually empty. He dreaded the market even more than the mechanic's workshop, but food was unavoidably important.

https://pixabay.com/photos/market-crowded-crowd-people-city-5210044/

On getting to the market gate, he parked and alighted from his van. The moment he stepped into the market, he was greeted by an ungodly amount of noise. Instinctively, he clutched his purse tighter. The market was many things, but not a safe place. He walked along the dirty market road, eyes scanning for anything he might need. The noise was disturbing, not to mention the seemingly infinite crowd of buyers and sellers which he stood in the midst of. Here, every man was the same. Crook or honest, greedy or generous, miserly or frivolous, they were the same here; all had the common factor of poverty, and all would leave the market even poorer. The rich had no business here. There were malls and supermarkets littered all over the inner city, and open for anyone who had the means to patronize them. Alas, Mike, a poor commercial van driver, didn't meet the criteria. He shuffled his feet on.

Once in a while, he would stop at a stand or stall, and haggle with the seller for minutes on end. He would then leave, either the same way he came, or with his bag heavier and his purse lighter. The prices were exorbitant, and even though he had to give a different impression to the seller, he didn't blame them for the high prices. The economy was dwindling under the new government, and money had no value. So, little by little, he would part with his money until there was nothing left. He looked in his bag. Tomatoes, spinach, peppers, basil leaves, two tubers of yam, a small bottle of cooking oil, a loaf of bread and some eggs for breakfast tomorrow. He still needed meat, or fish. He took a deep breath, and made for that section of the market.

Ten minutes in, and he felt like his head was going to pop off any moment. Every butcher had chased him away from their stalls, some even swinging their knives at him. The fish section had been no different. He had met a kind old woman who offered him a heavy discount on a medium-sized tilapia, but he still didn't have enough money for it. She looked at him with kind eyes, and shook her head sadly. He walked away, dejected. Finally, he had to make do with some worm-eaten, stale smoked fish he was sure had been sitting for God-knows-how-long. He let out a frustrated sigh, and headed for the market gate.

By the time Mike reached the front gate of his flat, the sun had set. He dragged the gate open, and drove inside. The minute he drove in, he saw little Ella running to meet him. A smile blossomed on his face. He got down quickly, and slammed the van's door again absentmindedly. He stretched out his hands, and scooped her up in his arms. He pressed her to himself, and felt the frustration vanish like a muscle knot coming loose. He had his precious Ella, and as long as she was with him, he had hope, a reason to keep going. It was the two of them against the world. Like it had always been. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

https://pixabay.com/photos/father-daughter-child-man-hug-551921/

Hey there, fellow hiveans! 👋😊
I wrote this piece to mirror aspects of life for poor people, and was inspired when I remembered a time in my childhood when my dad used to be a commercial bus driver.......... Sadly, this is what a lot of people go through everyday 😢, and family is one of the things that ease the frustration. I hope I portrayed that well enough in this story....... Let me know what y'all think in the comments ✌️🕊️