OLD MAN IN THE MOLUE: “Where Is the Profit?”
The bus was already full when it pulled away from Yaba.
Not full in the ordinary sense, but dense, air thick with heat and human proximity. The windows were open, but the breeze that came in did little more than rearrange the discomfort.
A journalist sat midway down, notebook closed but ready. He had boarded without intention, more out of habit than need, drawn as always to places where people did not perform for cameras.
Across from him sat the Old Man.
He was not remarkable at first glance. No theatrics. No visible poverty either. Just a stillness that felt deliberate, as though he had long ago decided that movement should only happen when necessary.
The conductor shouted destinations. Coins clinked. The bus lurched forward.
Then, without announcement, the Old Man spoke.
“Young man,” he said, not looking at the journalist, “what is the most valuable thing in this country today?”
The journalist hesitated. It sounded like a question, but not one that invited a quick answer.
“Access,” he said finally. “Connections.”
The Old Man nodded faintly, as if confirming something to himself.
“Yes,” he said. “That is what they have taught you.”
A woman seated beside the journalist glanced up, interested now. A university student across the aisle removed one earbud.
The Old Man continued.
“I was reading recently how Noam Chomsky’s name appeared in discussions around that Epstein affair.”
A slight stir. The name carried weight.
“That man, Jeffrey Epstein… he did not build connections. He built traps.”
The journalist leaned forward slightly.
“What do you mean?”
The Old Man turned to him now.
“I mean,” he said calmly, “that there are associations which do not expand your life. They compress it.”
He paused, letting the bus rattle over a bad stretch of road.
“He drew people in. Recorded them. Stored their weaknesses. And then… he owned them.”
A silence followed that felt heavier than the noise of the engine.
“So tell me,” the Old Man said, “what is a connection worth… if it can be turned into a chain?”
No one answered.
The student spoke up, cautious but curious.
“Sir, are you saying we should not build relationships?”
The Old Man smiled, not unkindly.
“I am saying,” he replied, “that we have confused proximity with purpose.”
The conductor squeezed past, collecting fares, momentarily breaking the tension. When he moved on, the Old Man resumed, softer now.
“One of the most difficult lessons in life,” he said, “is that one is often better off with no friends… than with the wrong ones.”
The woman beside the journalist frowned.
“But we need people,” she said. “That is how the world works.”
The Old Man inclined his head slightly.
“Yes,” he said. “That is what you have been told.”
He gestured toward the window.
“Look outside.”
They did.
A man lay stretched along a pavement edge, one arm over his face, asleep or exhausted beyond caring.
“Those who govern this country,” the Old Man continued, “many of them arrived there through connections.”
He turned back to the woman.
“Should that man on the street simply build better connections… so he may also rise?”
The question lingered.
The journalist spoke again.
“Then what is missing?”
The Old Man’s gaze settled on him.
“Profit,” he said.
Not financial. Not transactional.
“Meaning.”
He leaned back slightly, as if retrieving something from memory.
“I heard two stories recently,” he said.
“Two women in labour.”
The bus seemed to quiet, as though even the mechanical noise had lowered itself.
“One died because her husband insisted he could not afford a procedure. Even when neighbours offered to pay… he refused.”
A pause.
“She died.”
No one moved.
“The second story…” he began, then stopped.
He shook his head gently.
“I find that I do not remember it,” he said. “Perhaps my mind rejected it.”
A long silence followed.
Even the conductor said nothing.
After a while, the Old Man spoke again.
“Be careful who you associate with,” he said.
He looked briefly at the journalist.
“Even powerful men forget this.”
“I heard Bill Clinton speak once about that same Epstein… explaining, justifying… distancing.”
He shrugged lightly.
“Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he did.”
Then, more pointedly:
“But why were you there at all?”
The question seemed to travel through the bus, touching each passenger differently.
“If you have no reason to be in certain company,” the Old Man continued, “then absence is wisdom.”
The student nodded slowly.
“So what should one do instead?” he asked.
The Old Man’s expression softened.
“Seek better company,” he said.
“Where?” the journalist asked.
The Old Man smiled faintly.
“In stillness,” he said.
“In prayer.”
“In reflection.”
“In places where nothing is being traded.”
He looked out the window now.
“Sit in a church,” he said quietly. “Not for performance. Not for spectacle. Sit… and think.”
“Invite God into your thoughts.”
He turned back one last time.
“The Holy Spirit,” he said, “is better company than most men.”
A small smile crossed his face.
“Of course,” he added, “you may test yourself from time to time.”
“A little exposure. A little mingling.”
“But be careful.”
“There is a sensitivity you must not lose.”
“That inner signal… that quiet awareness…”
He tapped his chest lightly.
“You know it.”
The bus slowed.
Voices returned. Movement resumed.
But something had shifted.
As the journalist rose to get down, he turned back.
“One last question,” he said.
The Old Man waited.
“All these connections,” the journalist said, “all these networks…”
He hesitated.
“Are they all useless?”
The Old Man held his gaze.
Then, very simply, he said:
“Always ask, where is the profit?”
The journalist stepped down into the Lagos morning.
The bus pulled away.
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