The poverty of affluence

The vicissitudes of life are often inexplicable. One moment, a man is surrounded by family, friends and purpose; the next, he finds himself abandoned by fate, left to navigate the twilight of his existence in solitude and despair. Indeed, if there is anything life teaches us with brutal consistency, it is that human existence is fragile, unpredictable and incapable of being fully understood.

Each time I take my vehicle to my mechanic at the popular Igun Motor Spare Parts Market in Benin City, my eyes are invariably drawn to a sight that evokes a deep sense of sorrow within me. It is the sight of an elderly blind man, a nonagenarian whose frail frame and forlorn appearance tell a story of suffering more eloquently than words ever could.

For several months, I observed him from a distance. He would sit quietly on a worn-out wooden bench, listening attentively to the sounds around him. Since his eyes could no longer behold the world, his ears had become his primary connection to humanity. He listened to conversations, passing vehicles, hammering tools from workshops, and the endless bustle that characterises life in the spare parts market.

Whenever I saw him, I felt a heaviness in my heart. There was something profoundly tragic about his condition. Yet, like many people, I initially resisted the temptation to pry into the affairs of a stranger. I simply felt pity and moved on.

One day, however, curiosity got the better of me. I approached some of the artisans and apprentices who appeared familiar with him and asked about his story. What I heard left me stunned.

The man, I was told, lives alone in an old mud house inherited from his late father. He is blind. He has no wife. He has no children. No close relative lives with him. There is nobody to cook for him, nobody to wash his clothes, nobody to remind him to take medication when ill, and nobody to sit beside him when loneliness becomes unbearable.

His survival depends largely on the kindness of apprentices and artisans within the compound where he lives. These young men, many of whom are struggling themselves, occasionally provide food, run errands, and assist him whenever necessary.

As I listened, I was overwhelmed by sadness and disbelief.

How does a man arrive at such a lonely destination in life? How does someone spend more than ninety years on earth and end up with nobody to call family? What twists of fate culminate in such a heartbreaking reality? These are questions for which there may never be satisfactory answers.

Yet what makes his story even more tragic is the irony that surrounds it. The old man is not entirely poor. In fact, by Nigerian standards, he is a wealthy man.

The 100-by-100-foot parcel of land on which his mud house stands on Igun Street is in a strategic area of Benin City and is reportedly worth well over one hundred million naira, having appreciated significantly over the years. What was once a modest family compound has become a highly valuable asset.

Ironically, the owner of this fortune lives in conditions that can only be described as penurious. His house bears all the marks of neglect. The structure is old and deteriorating, and there is little evidence that the immense value of the land translates into comfort or dignity for its owner.

In other words, he is asset-rich but cash-poor. He possesses wealth on paper but experiences poverty in reality.

This paradox exposes one of the greatest misconceptions of our time: the belief that wealth guarantees happiness, security or fulfilment. Society reinforces this illusion daily. We celebrate affluence, admire luxury, and often equate financial success with human worth.

Yet this blind nonagenarian reminds us that money, by itself, cannot solve many human problems. It cannot buy genuine companionship. It cannot purchase the affection of a loving spouse. It cannot replace family bonds. It cannot eliminate loneliness. It cannot stop old age. And it certainly cannot reverse blindness.

He possesses what many Nigerians desperately desire— a valuable property worth a fortune, yet he depends on the kindness of apprentices whose combined wealth may not amount to a fraction of his. Life, indeed, has a peculiar sense of irony.

His predicament also raises deeper questions about the changing nature of family and community life in contemporary society. More importantly, it compels reflection on the gradual collapse of the African extended family system, once a protective shield for the vulnerable and the elderly.

There was a time when no elderly person was left to suffer in isolation. In traditional African society, family extended beyond the nuclear unit to include grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and even distant relations. Every member had obligations towards the other, especially the vulnerable.

An ageing man who became blind would not have been abandoned. Younger relatives would have shared responsibility for his care. Someone would prepare his meals, accompany him to the hospital, and ensure his house remained habitable. The burden of old age was collectively shared.

Among the Benin people, as in many African societies, old age was a blessing. The elderly were respected as custodians of wisdom and living links between the past and present. Their presence brought honour to the family.

Today, however, these values have been eroded by urbanisation, economic hardship and rising individualism. The communal spirit that once defined African society is gradually giving way to self-interest. Increasingly, people focus only on themselves and their immediate nuclear families, while the welfare of elderly relatives is often neglected.

Consequently, many elderly people now live lonely and miserable lives. Some are remembered only during festive seasons. Others are contacted only when financial assistance is needed. Once their usefulness diminishes, they are quietly abandoned.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of this moral decline is the attitude of some relatives towards inheritance. Across many communities, it is common to find people who neglected an elderly relative in life suddenly emerging after his death to claim his estate. During his lifetime, they offered no care, no companionship, and no support. Yet in death, they become fiercely interested in his property.

They descend upon estates like vultures. Family members who ignored suffering suddenly become experts in inheritance rights. What follows are conflicts, court cases and broken relationships that sometimes last for years.

Such behaviour represents a deep moral contradiction. How can people who abandoned a man in life feel entitled to his property in death? What moral justification exists for inheriting from someone whose burdens they never shared?

The blind nonagenarian at Igun Spare Parts Market quietly embodies this uncomfortable truth. One cannot help but wonder whether distant relatives might one day emerge to contest what remains of his estate, despite having ignored him in life.

Too often, we celebrate the dead while neglecting the living. We organise elaborate burials for those whose suffering we ignored. We erect expensive tombstones for those whose loneliness we failed to notice. We shed public tears after death while withholding private compassion in life.

The truth remains simple: the greatest gift we can offer ageing relatives is not what we do after they die, but what we do while they are still alive.

A visit. A call. A meal. A helping hand. These are small acts, yet they carry immense moral weight.

The blind nonagenarian at Igun Spare Parts Market may never appear in newspaper headlines, yet his life speaks loudly to the conscience of society.

It is a story of loneliness amidst wealth. A story of broken family bonds. A story of inheritance without care. And ultimately, a story that demands we rethink what it means to be human.

For in the final analysis, the true measure of our humanity is not how much wealth we accumulate, but how we treat the vulnerable among us when they can no longer fend for themselves.

Life’s vicissitudes may indeed be inexplicable, but compassion remains one response that is always within our power.

________________________
Dr. Odaro is a columnist and lecturer in the Department of Journalism and Media Studies, Auchi Polytechnic, Auchi.