She didn’t ask for Money

Dear God,

The little girl walked up to my car like she was living on borrowed life.

Her gown was far too big for her small frame, swallowing her shoulders, dragging along the dusty road like it had stories older than her. She lifted one side with a practiced tug, adjusted the slipping shoulder strap, rested her head gently on my window, pressed her nose against the glass, and breathed little clouds onto it.

Then the melody began.

“Good morning ma… Thank you ma… How you dey ma… God bless you ma… Abeg give me something… I wan chop… You no go beg… You no go die… God go bless you. Amen.”

A full prayer meeting. On my windscreen.

I watched her with irritation, not pity. Which worried me. Because she was actually a very pretty child under the oversized dress, even with the dust that had adopted her skin as permanent residence. Her hair was long, carefully tucked into her head tie. Somebody had once loved this child enough to comb her hair. That thought annoyed me further.

My first instinct was to clutch my bag tighter and drop it to the floor. I hated that reflex, but Lagos has trained my survival instincts better than Sunday school ever trained my compassion.

I wanted to feel sorry for her. Truly. But empathy refused to report for duty that morning. I searched myself.

What is wrong with you? I asked my own soul. This is a child. A child should unlock something soft inside you.

Nothing unlocked.

Just then, reinforcement arrived. Two more children joined her, an older boy with scanning eyes and a smaller girl who hadn’t quite mastered the begging choreography yet. The boy leaned closer, his own rhythmic chant flowing like a rehearsed rap. Suddenly my car felt very small. Left and right, children everywhere. I felt boxed in, emotionally and physically.

I prayed for traffic to move. Of course, Lagos traffic chose violence instead.

We were stuck. Motionless. I hated that I couldn’t bring myself to give them anything. I hated the guilt I had for hating myself. A full emotional traffic jam.

Then suddenly traffic shifted. My driver surged forward to grab space and almost clipped one of the children. My heart jumped into my throat.

“Get out of the way!” my driver shouted at them.

They clung to the side of the car, still blessing me enthusiastically (my family, my children, my future grandchildren, probably my great-great-grandchildren too) navigating angry drivers while pouring spiritual goodwill on my head like holy water.

Out of pure irritation and a desire for peace, I handed them some money. Normally, I don’t do that. But today… today felt different.

They grabbed it and ran, not away, but into the middle of traffic to share. Or rather, to fight. Hands flying. Voices rising. Tug-of-war with destiny. My anxiety spiked.

What if a car hits them? What if someone falls?

Then, from nowhere, an adult beggar appeared like a supervisor clocking in late. After a brief exchange and a few sharp instructions, she collected the money from them and disappeared. So, she had been watching all along. Of course.

Of course.

I sighed and reached back for my book. And then I noticed her. The first girl was still standing quietly beside my window. Silent now. Watching me.

She lifted her hand again and mimed her begging motion.

I was irritated all over again.

I rolled the window down slightly.
“I already gave your people money. Go and share with them.”

“I no want money, ma,” she said calmly.

I froze.

You don’t want money? She nodded.

“You don’t want money? What do you want? I don’t have food.”

“I no want food, ma.”

Okay. Now she has officially confused me.

“So, what do you want?” I asked.

She pointed shyly at the book in my hand and smiled.

I lifted it slowly. Raised an eyebrow.

She nodded.

“You want this book?” She shook her head.

“I wan go school,” she said softly. “I wan read book. I wan be like you.”

Father Lord.

That one sentence knocked the irritation clean out of my spirit.

“How old are you?” I asked amazed
She held up ten fingers.

“Have you ever been to school?”
She shook her head.

“Then how do you know all those prayers?”
“Teach us,” she said, pointing behind her and then to her chest.

Ah. The penny dropped. Someone teaches them what to say. What to perform. What unlocks wallets, but not their minds. Not their future.

“Who do you live with?”
“Us,” she replied.

“Your parents?”
“Kateka.”

I stared at her blankly, shaking my head.

Kateka… Tell you wake, eat, go bring money…. She demonstrated.

The light bulb came on. “Caretakers”. They had Caretakers. The ones who wake them, feed them, send them out to bring money back.

Hmmm. My heart sank into a quiet place.

“Would they allow me to take you to school?” I asked even then knowing the answer
She shook her head.

“Can you call one of them for me?” I ventured
Fear flickered briefly in her eyes, then vanished behind practiced blankness.

I felt helpless. I can’t just take a child from the roadside. I can’t negotiate with invisible systems. I can’t rescue the whole world from inside a car.

As I was still wrestling with my thoughts, one of the older boys returned and signalled her to move on. Instructions had been issued. Surveillance was active.

If I gave her money, it would be taken.
If I took her, someone would notice.
If I did nothing… I would carry her face in my heart forever.

What do you do in a moment like this, Lord?

When compassion finally shows up late, and finds no place to sit?

Maybe the lesson is that not every problem fits into a handbag solution. Maybe sometimes God allows discomfort not to shame us, but to awaken something larger than charity, responsibility, systems, advocacy, prayer, action that outlives us.

Maybe this is not the end of the story.

Maybe this girl just planted a question inside me that refuses to keep quiet.

And Lord… You know I don’t like unanswered questions.

So, this is your daughter, I will be back, let me just check in.