A dim table lamp barely made a difference, casting more shadow than anything.
– What’s the best thing you’ve ever done, grandpa? — Asked a little boy.
– Grhm… What you say?
– The best thing… My homework is to ask our family members about the best thing they’ve ever done.
The grandpa scratched his cheek, gazing through the floor.
– I helped a man once — he said at last — a man who changed my life.
The boy was looking at the grandpa, all ears.
– While in university, I struggled for money, doing odd jobs here and there — grandpa continued. — But one day, I saw a piece of paper on a bulletin board that read:
“Caregiver needed. Accommodation provided. Pay negotiable. Number below.”
I remember thinking: room for free and money? I called the number right away.
A day or so later, I met Martin. He was an old black handicapped man living in an elegant but decrepit two-story house on the right bank. He greeted me heartily.
During the first week at his house, I learned how inaccurate indeed it was to call Martin “disabled”. Paying next to no attention to his wheelchair and his condition, Martin was in fact the liveliest person I’d ever known. One thing he couldn’t cope with, though, was being alone.
– Not a single goddamn friend alive! — He used to say.
I lived on the second floor. Caring for Martin was nothing difficult, mostly keeping the house clean and helping him get around when he was tired. Days on end we spent talking. I got used to him. He became a close friend.
– What happened then, grandpa?
– Then he died. I came into his room one morning with a visceral fear of the end. I was right.
Later I found out that he had left me his only valuable possession — the house. I decided to sell it, but didn’t know what to do with the money. Eventually, I tracked down Martin’s birthplace, a small village in Mali. I went there with a vague idea of trying to help someone, even if distantly related to him.
I arrived one early morning and asked, in French, to see the elder. They were curious to know what brought me there, and I told them Martin’s story (whose real name was Modibo). They said they needed to discuss and invited to stay. Walking around that same day there I saw your grandma. I didn’t take the flight back.
Your father was born a bit more than a year later there. With the money I brought we built a school, which your father went to, and which kids still go to. I will show you one day. — The grandpa turned to the boy.
The boy was sleeping.