Charity Wrapped in Dignity

Dear God,

One day, in a quiet corner of the street near my estate, under the scorching afternoon sun, sat an old woman. Her weathered hands rested on a basket filled with fresh vegetables—vibrant, green, and bursting with the promise of nourishment. Yet, despite their freshness, she knew time was her greatest enemy. If the sun went down before she sold them all, they would wither, and so would her hopes of making enough to feed her family that night.

With a toothless but hopeful smile, she called out to passers-by, beckoning them with the silent plea of a woman who had seen too many long days of efforts and not enough yield. Just then, like a well-dressed miracle, an elegantly adorned lady approached. She paused, scanned the wares, and with the confidence of someone who had never bargained out of necessity, asked,

“How much do you sell these leaves for?” (flicking her fingers up and down the basket of vegetables in disdain)

Now Lord, if you recall what I said earlier, you’d know the old woman was selling fresh vegetables, but when money, vanity and pride are involved, people see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear!

Smiling patiently, the old woman corrected her, “My child, these are very fresh vegetables, and I sell a bundle for N500.”

The woman wrinkled her nose as if she had just been asked to pay in gold. “I’ll take six for N2000,” she declared, her tone making it clear she wasn’t asking—she was dictating.

The old woman sighed, adjusting the weight of years on her frail shoulders. “But my child,” she said gently, “these are fresh, sizeable bundles. They should be N1000, but because I must hurry home, I am giving them out at half the price.”

She picked up a bundle, eyed it with forced scepticism, and said, “Well, N2000 and I will take 6. Take it or leave it!”

There was a brief silence. The kind of silence that tests strength and will-power. The kind that gives you the taste of power imbalances. There stood the adorned rich lady holding the full ace of money advantage and the poor old woman holding the wings of desperation and the hope of a change. The only balance between them being Compassion or Pride.

The old woman, already defeated by the day, was the first to give in. She nodded in acceptance of her obvious fate. “You can buy them at whatever price you want, my child,” she said. “I haven’t sold a single bundle today, and I must sell everything to feed my family.”

She dropped the money, took her six bundles, and strutted off; head held high, victorious. A master negotiator. What a bargain! She got herself a good deal.

A few minutes later, she slid into her luxurious car, met up with a friend, and drove to one of the finest restaurants in that area. There, they ordered all manners of meals on the menu and drinks worth N180,000. They nibbled on their meals, pushed their plates around, barely eating half of what they ordered. They laughed over their designer cocktails and compared notes on the vanities. When the bill came, she picked it up and nonchalantly placed N200,000 on the table.

“Keep the change,” she told the waiter with a smile. A generous queen. The waiter nodded in admiration, and she shuffled out with pride.

Yes, Lord, I like the way you are looking at me. You get the irony of it all, right? That old woman, desperate for a fair price, had been denied an extra N1000, but the high-end restaurant—already making a fortune—was tipped N20,000 for nothing. Imagine for just a second what that N20,000 would have done for that woman.

What I struggle to understand is why we feel the need to flex our bargaining muscles on the poor but never on the rich? Why do we haggle over every naira with a struggling vendor but swipe our cards without a second thought in high-end stores? Why do we tell the humble fruit seller, “Ah ah, N100 for one orange? Last last, I go buy am N50”, but proudly pay N5,000 for a bowl of fruit salad in a fancy restaurant without blinking? Why do we say, “The school fees are too expensive, I can’t help,” to our neighbour but casually drop hundreds of thousands on designer clothes, luxury bags, or a birthday gift for a friend who already has everything?

An African proverb says, “A child who swallows a coconut must trust his stomach to handle it.” But I have since learned that some people swallow coconuts for the rich and force the poor to choke on pebbles.

I have a friend, Michael, who had a strange habit. He never haggled with struggling vendors or hawkers we meet on the streets. In fact, sometimes he paid more than they asked for. One day, my curiosity got the best of me. “Michael,” I asked, “The guy said N3k, why are you giving him N5k? That watch you bought from that boy, I know you will never wear it. You are probably going to give it out or something, so why buy it? You also gave that other woman more than she asked for, why do you do this when you could easily get these things cheaper?”

He smiled and said something I’ll never forget: “This is charity wrapped in dignity, my dear.”

That hit me differently.

See, real generosity isn’t about throwing money where it shines the most. True giving is helping those who have no means to pay you back. And doing it in such a subtle way that you give them the grace of their full dignity. If you only give where you stand to gain—whether in reputation, influence, or future favours—then you’re not giving, you’re investing. And Lord, that is why some people use their tithes and offerings as a subtle investment. Giving you in the hope of getting a little miracle back! Generosity should be instinctive, not calculated. 

My father used to tell me, “If you have N100 and you cannot give someone N10, then when you have a million, you won’t be able to give a thousand.” Because giving is not about the size of your pocket—it’s about the size of your heart.

And one more thing about giving: When you give to someone who can reciprocate, you might as well have given a bribe. But when you give to someone who has no means to pay you back—then, my friend, your soul has given.

You can quote me on that.

Dad, Guess what? You need to know how many times I prayed that the vegetable purge that lady! Okay, that’s not true Dad, I am just smarting for what she did. 

This is me, your mischievous daughter, I am checking in.