As evening falls, the city comes alive. Music echoes from bars as I walk back home from the gym. Jazz, dancehall, pop, Afrobeats.
Then I see something that instantly irks me: beggars — a whole army of them, lined up on the edge of the street. My face wrinkles with disdain. For the life of me, I can't understand how a fully able-bodied individual with complete limbs and a brain sound enough to know the importance of money would laze about, hoping to get by at the mercy of others. And that's why I don't enable them by giving. Call it my own contribution to society.
On getting home, I encourage myself to relax. Order in. But my bank account is the equivalent of the temperature in Canada — in the negative. It's been six months since I lost my job but I am still expecting them to call back. I know they will never find anyone as efficient as me. In the meantime, I call my father to ask for money again. He's pissed but little worry — when I get my job back, I will reimburse him.