I WAS NEVER A THIEF (Story time)

 

I WAS NEVER A THIEF (Story time) People still whisper about me in hushed tones whenever I walk by. They clutch their purses tighter, avert their eyes, or pretend to be busy with their phones. It used to make me angry, but now I just sigh. After all, it’s hard to erase a stain once it’s been splashed across your name. But let me tell you my story because I was never a thief.

I grew up in a tiny, bustling neighborhood where everyone knew everyone. My mother sold fried yam by the roadside, my father was a retired postman who spent most days playing draughts under a mango tree. We didn’t have much, but our small home was filled with laughter, the smell of pepper soup, and love that wrapped around us like a warm blanket. When I was twenty, I got a job at a small supermarket owned by Mr. Okeke, a plump man with a booming voice who trusted me enough to let me handle his daily sales. I took pride in arranging the shelves, counting every kobo, and balancing the books to the last naira. I dreamt of saving enough to open a little provisions shop for my mother, so she wouldn’t have to stand under the sun all day. Then one afternoon, everything shattered.

I was at the counter when Mrs. Anulika, a well-known gossip, burst into the shop waving her arms. “Thief! Thief!” she screamed. She pointed right at me. My heart pounded so loudly I thought everyone could hear it. Behind her, two policemen stood frowning. Mr. Okeke came running. “What is it?” Mrs. Anulika wagged her finger in my face. “This girl stole ten thousand naira from me last week when I came to buy rice. I had my purse right here, and after she packed my goods, my money vanished!”

My mouth went dry. “Ma, I swear I didn’t take anything. I don’t even remember you carrying cash that day.” “Liar!” she spat. The policemen didn’t bother asking further. They dragged me outside like a rag doll. The neighbors gathered, shaking their heads. Some shouted, “Ehn, we knew she was too neat to be honest.” I begged, pleaded, even cried. But who would believe a poor girl over the wealthy wife of a school principal?

I spent two nights in a dirty cell that smelled of urine and despair. On the third day, my father arrived with tears in his eyes and an old envelope, my mother’s emergency savings. He handed it to the police. I was released, but my spirit stayed imprisoned. The supermarket job was gone. So was my reputation. For months I couldn’t walk down the street without hearing someone hiss “ole” (thief). My mother tried to comfort me, but every time she looked at me, there was sadness buried behind her smile.

Two years later, the truth stumbled into the open. Mrs. Anulika’s son was caught trying to steal money from his father’s wardrobe. Under pressure, he confessed that he’d taken the ten thousand from his mother’s purse the same day she visited my shop. When word spread, some people came to apologize. Most didn’t. The damage was already done. So now, whenever people look at me with suspicion, I simply nod and walk on. Because even though I was never a thief, I’ve learned that people’s memories often cling harder to lies than to the truth.

But that’s okay. I’ve started a little provisions stall by the roadside, the same dream I once had. My mother sits beside me peeling oranges, and my father still plays draughts under the mango tree. Life may have branded me unfairly, but every time I count my honest earnings, I smile. Because I was never a thief and deep inside, I know that’s enough.