PAY IN KIND IN SURULERE

PAY IN KIND IN SURULERE

In one lively face me I face you compound in Surulere, Lagos, there lived a dramatic young woman called Anita.

Anita was fine. Not just ordinary fine. The kind of fine that made okada riders reduce speed when passing her balcony. She was confident, sharp mouthed, and always owing rent.

Nobody in the compound really understood how she managed to look like soft life ambassador when her landlord’s notebook carried her name in bold ink.

The landlord, Pa Ezekiel, was a strict man. Tall, dark, permanently serious, and blessed with a memory sharper than calculator. The type of man who knew the exact date your rent expired more than he knew his children’s birthdays.

He kept a small brown notebook. In that notebook were names, dates, amounts, and red circles around defaulters. Anita’s name had three red circles.

One hot afternoon, the sun was wicked. NEPA had taken light since morning. The compound generator had refused to start. Everybody was sweating like roasted corn.

Inside her small self contained room, Anita was lying on her bed wearing simple house underwear and wrapper, using one plastic hand fan that had seen better days.

She muttered to herself.

“This heat is not from this world.”

Suddenly, a knock landed on her door.

Gbam! Gbam! Gbam!

“Anita! I know you are inside!”

Her heart jumped.

“Ah! Landlord don come!”

She jumped up, adjusted her wrapper, sprayed small perfume into the air like that would change the situation, then opened the door small small.

“Good afternoon sir…”

Pa Ezekiel folded his arms slowly.

“Your rent has expired since last month.”

Anita sighed dramatically like Nollywood village princess that just heard bad prophecy.

“Sir… things are hard. I don’t have money to pay cash.”

The landlord raised one eyebrow.

“No money?”

Anita shook her head slowly. Then in one bold voice she said

“Sir… let me pay in kind.”

The compound breeze paused.

Even the dead ceiling fan felt the tension.

Pa Ezekiel blinked twice.

“Pay in kind?”

Anita nodded confidently like she had just invented new economic policy.

“Yes sir. Instead of money… I can pay you… in kind.”

The landlord removed his glasses, cleaned it carefully with the edge of his shirt, and wore it back like he needed spiritual clarity.

“My daughter, how will I take care of my family if you pay in kind?”

Anita blinked.

“Sir?”

“Will I use kind to buy rice? Will I go to market and tell them I brought kind? Will school fees accept kind?”

Anita did not expect that reply. She thought the man would smile mysteriously or at least cough awkwardly.

Instead, he brought out his notebook.

“My wife sent me to buy tomatoes, onions, and turkey. Tell me, will the market woman collect kind?”

Anita started laughing nervously.

“Sir, you don’t understand what I mean…”

“Oh I understand very well,” Pa Ezekiel replied sharply. “But NEPA does not understand kind. Water board does not understand kind. My children’s school principal does not understand kind.”

Just then, his wife shouted from downstairs.

“Ezekiel! Did she pay?”

He shouted back loudly.

“She wants to pay in kind!”

The entire compound went silent.

From one window somebody whispered, “Kind ke?”

Another neighbor opened his door slightly to hear better.

Within seconds, Mama Ezekiel climbed upstairs like she was auditioning for reality show.

“What kind?” she asked, hands on waist.

Anita wished the ground would open and swallow her whole.

Pa Ezekiel spoke calmly.

“She says she does not have cash.”

Mama Ezekiel looked at Anita from head to toe, adjusted her head tie, then burst into laughter.

“My sister, even if you add interest to that kind, it will not cook soup.”

The compound exploded with laughter.

Children ran out thinking free entertainment had started.

Anita cleared her throat.

“Okay sir, okay ma… I will look for the money. Please give me small time.”

Pa Ezekiel nodded slowly.

“One week. If not, you will pay in another kind.”

Anita’s eyes widened.

“Another kind?”

“Yes,” he smiled slightly.

“You will sweep the compound for three months. Wash the staircase. Help my wife sell tomatoes every Saturday morning. That is the kind I accept.”

The neighbors clapped loudly.

One old man shouted, “Correct landlord!”

Anita forced a smile, but inside she was calculating how her life had reached this point.

The week passed quickly.

Anita tried everything. She called her ex boyfriend who suddenly remembered he was traveling to Ghana. She messaged one sugar uncle who replied with thumbs up emoji and nothing else. She even tried to collect small loan from cooperative but her name was already on blacklist.

On the seventh day, Pa Ezekiel appeared again.

“Time is up.”

Anita sighed.

“Sir, I tried.”

He closed his notebook gently.

“Tomorrow morning, six am. Bring broom.”

And that was how Anita’s new life began.

The first morning she came out with broom, wrapper tied tight, hair wrapped in scarf, face serious. The compound children were already waiting like audience.

One boy whispered loudly, “Pay in kind has started.”

Everybody laughed.

Anita swept the entire compound. She bent, she packed dirt, she chased stubborn dust that refused to cooperate. By nine am, sweat had baptized her.

Mama Ezekiel stood by the corridor supervising like military general.

“Don’t forget that corner.”

“Yes ma.”

“Scrub that staircase well.”

“Yes ma.”

The first week was hard. The second week was humbling. By the third week, something unexpected happened.

Anita began to talk to people she never really spoke to before.

She chatted with Mama Tunde who sold akara. She joked with the tailor downstairs. She even started helping the children with homework in the evenings.

One Saturday at the tomato stall, while helping Mama Ezekiel arrange baskets, a woman came to buy pepper.

“Are you the girl that does graphics design?” the woman asked.

Anita blinked.

“Yes ma.”

“I need someone to design flyer for my church program.”

That small job led to another. And another.

Soon, Anita was getting small small payments. She started saving carefully. No more unnecessary hair bundles. No more impulsive online shopping.

Three months passed.

On the final day of her compound service, she walked to Pa Ezekiel with envelope in hand.

“Sir, this is my full rent. And extra for delay.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“You have it?”

“Yes sir.”

Mama Ezekiel smiled proudly.

“We are proud of you.”

Anita laughed.

“I learnt my lesson.”

Pa Ezekiel adjusted his glasses.

“What lesson?”

She smiled.

“That kind cannot pay school fees.”

The compound laughed again.

But this time, the laughter felt different. It was not mocking. It was warm.

Months later, Anita moved into a bigger apartment nearby. Not because she was chased out. But because she had grown.

On her moving day, the entire compound gathered.

Mama Ezekiel hugged her.

“Remember us when you blow.”

Anita grinned.

“I will not forget where I swept.”

Pa Ezekiel shook her hand firmly.

“You are now a serious woman.”

She smiled.

“And you are still correct landlord.”

As her small moving van drove away, the children shouted, “No more pay in kind!”

Anita waved from the window, laughing.

Life in Surulere continued as usual. NEPA still took light. People still argued over water. Rent still expired.

But one thing became legend in that compound.

Whenever any tenant joked about paying in kind, somebody would quickly respond,

“Make sure it is the right kind.”

And Pa Ezekiel would clear his throat and say proudly,

“Kind cannot pay school fees.”

And that was how one dramatic afternoon turned into the story that Surulere would never forget.

Because sometimes, embarrassment is the teacher success uses to get your attention.

And sometimes, the only kind that truly works is the kind that builds you.

The End.