THE RAIN THAT TAUGHT ME PATIENCE

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It was in the heart of Lagos some years back, during one of those rainy seasons when the clouds seemed to have signed a contract never to let the sun out again. I remember the day clearly, not because it was extraordinary at first glance, but because it taught me a lesson that has stayed with me to this moment.

I was standing at the crowded Ojuelegba bus stop, trying to catch a danfo heading towards Yaba. The rain had started earlier in the morning, the kind that poured in angry sheets, flooding the streets and forcing hawkers to balance their goods on their heads while working through brown water that reached up to their knees. By the time I got to the bus stop, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the chaos it left behind was alive as horns were blaring, passengers shouting at each other, conductors dangling from the bus doors and screaming destinations at the top of their lungs.

I was tired, wet, and impatient because i had been waiting almost thirty minutes, and every time a bus came close, it was either full or the conductor waved me off. I felt invisible, as if Lagos itself had swallowed me in its noisy and merciless rhythm.

Next to me stood a young boy, maybe eleven or twelve, barefoot, with a nylon bag in his hand, his clothes clung to his body, soaked through, and he had that sharp, restless look children who grew up too fast often carried. At first, I didn’t pay him much attention because I had assumed that he was one of the countless street kids hustling around the bus stop.

But then, after one particularly frustrating moment when a danfo sped past splashing muddy water onto my trousers, I felt agitated and very angry making me to curse under my breath. The boy turned to me with a faint smile and said, “Oga, no vex. Na so this Lagos be.”

Something in his tone caught me, it wasn’t mocking but rather it was oddly comforting because his voice carried the wisdom of someone who had already made peace with the unfairness of the city. I looked at him properly and then saw that his bag were filled with gala sausage rolls and small sachets of pure water which signified clearly that he was selling them, but the rain had killed his morning market. He shifted from one leg to the other with his thin body shivering slightly, but his smile stayed.

“What’s your name?” I asked, almost without thinking.

“Samuel,” he said quickly, eyes darting around to see if a potential customer was nearby.

I nodded and then asked him again, “You go school?”

He shook his head and chuckled softly, “School? No time for that one now. My mama dey sell pepper for market. If I no sell, we no go chop.”

I didn’t know what to say, because there I was, grumbling about missing buses and stained trousers, and here was this boy, barefoot, rain-soaked and still smiling through it. Minutes passed, and I finally managed to squeeze into a danfo, and to my surprise, Samuel hopped in too, balancing his bag of goods carefully on his lap. He sat opposite me, still smiling as the conductor barked at passengers to shift and make space.

The bus ride was one of those typically bumpy Lagos journeys where windows fogged up, water dripping through a hole in the roof, the air thick with sweat and impatience. Somewhere near Tejuosho, a man in the back started complaining about the fare being too high prompting the conductor to respond back, and soon the entire bus was filled with shouting voices, insults, and laughter. Through it all, I observed Samuel seated quietly, clutching his bag, his eyes scanning the passengers, calculating who might buy from him when the shouting died down.

I watched him, and something shifted in me. This boy wasn’t just surviving; he was fighting for every breath, every meal, every tomorrow and yet he carried himself with a calmness, a patience I didn’t even have as an adult. When we finally reached Yaba, I pulled him aside before leaving the bus and from my pocket, I gave him some money that was more than the cost of his gala or water, which made him looked at me, wide-eyed.

“Oga, you go buy gala?” he asked cautiously, as if refusing to believe it could be a gift.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Keep it, it's for your mama.”

For the first time, his smile faltered, his lips trembled as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. He simply nodded, holding onto the money tightly, and jumped off the bus. That was the last time I saw Samuel, but the memory of that rainy day has followed me like a shadow because I realized then that patience isn’t just about waiting for a bus, or enduring inconvenience, Patience is about enduring life’s storms with dignity, about finding a reason to smile even when the rain won’t stop.

Sometimes, when I find myself frustrated by the small discomforts of life, traffic, deadlines, disappointments, I always remember that boy at Ojuelegba. Barefoot, soaked, yet smiling. He had nothing, but in a way, he had more strength than many of us.

And I know, deep down, that Lagos did not just teach me patience that day. Samuel did.