Promise
On the words we don’t keep
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Dear Bolu,
As I slugged my way into the departure lounge, I could be seen dripping with sweat all over. You'd have thought I'd just concluded a full-body HIIT workout or accompanied Icarus on his flight of death with the way a sea of salt water blazed a trail down my contoured face and discoloured neck. But no, I hadn’t been involved in any of that. All I’d done so far was walk a few yards with my backpack and a light carry-on bag in either hand. C’est fini. And it looked like I’d just broken a severe fever. Was I surprised? Not at all. I sweat a lot, usually inordinately.
Ayeesha says I must have been born either in a sauna or at the foot of a volcano, hence my propensity to drip at the slightest exertion. I forgive her for her many silly remarks, but I can't even take offence at this one—there's simply no serious explanation for why I sweat this much. In my old life, I was dubbed sweaty palms as I had to dab my hands before every handshake. I found it embarrassing because it could be interpreted as a sign of nervousness or anxiety, but that was hardly ever the case. I simply sweat a lot. Also, the weather around these parts doesn't do me any favours. The sun needs only a peek for my skin to start perspiring, and it worsens when it is at its peak. I now typically head out with a face towel and a handkerchief for backup, and I suffer significantly on days like this one when my hands are missing these items.
It’s safe to say that I wasn’t in my most impeccable form as I entered departures, so when a young lady approached me as if to make conversation, I was pleasantly shocked. “Hello, what time is your flight?” she asked. “It’s not for an hour and a half”, I responded, as cooly as I could, given the sweat now trickling down from my ear lobes. “Then you want a place to sit. You should follow me”, she said, immediately turning around without recourse to my response or reaction. Wonderful. When did the service at airports get to this level? I’m glad this country is finally getting some things right. Those were my thoughts at the time, but they were not really the first ones I had. My first thoughts leaned towards wariness––does she want to steal my bags, dupe me, or hypnotize me? You learn quickly how cold, brutal, and unforgiving this city can be once bitten. On these streets, there’s a thin line between hello and moku-mogbe-modaran (essentially, I’m in trouble), and that line is only as thick as your sharpness. I was wary for a good reason, but I followed her still. She was a doll, and I, like a rag—a wet rag—was delighted to hold her space.
We walked a bit till we arrived at a booth, and she asked me to sit. I’d had my suspicions, but only then did I fully realize that I was going to be sold some product or service. Usually, I’d say no, but both the proposition and the propositioner were attractive enough to overpower my usual tendencies. “We run quick tests here to check your blood pressure, BMI, and a couple of other things”, she said. “These are basic measures of your well-being, and it’s always a good idea to regularly check them”. I agreed to do it. "Yes, I just need a few minutes to collect myself", I said as the sweat streaks gradually began fading.
The tests didn't take long to complete, and she presented my results to me. "The readings are good. Your BMI is about 23.2, which is fine, but you need to keep an eye on your stress levels. Your systolic pressure is marginally pre-hypertensive". It’s always a relief, I tell you, to learn that we’re in good health because, someday, if we live long enough, we won’t be. So I was pleased with her verdict and happy to pay her for her services. As I prepared to leave, I asked if I could take a picture of the report. “I know a doctor who I’d like to show”. She said a picture wasn’t necessary. All I had to do was I put my email address in a notebook. "I will forward the results to you later today", she said. Wonderful. "Are you really going to do that?" I enquired. She said yes. I asked twice, and she said yes both times. She even gave me her word, and only then was I satisfied. I penned my email as requested and made my way out.
My flight was long and uneventful. Ayeesha picked me up when I landed, and I narrated the events of that afternoon to her, particularly the quick health check. “I’d tried to get the report so I can hear what you make of it”, I said. I also told her that it’d be sent to my email and I’d let her know when I get it. “You’re probably not going to get it”, Ayeesha quipped. She went on, “that lady doesn’t owe you anything, and you’d likely never see her again. You’re not going to get it”. I disagreed. I argued that she gave me her word and that had to stand for something. We went back and forth a bit on the matter, but she ended up being right. It’s been two weeks, and I’m yet to receive my health report in my mail. It’s sad that I can’t do anything about it. I can’t exert any form of revenge on that doll of a woman for betraying my trust, and that displeases me. It displeases me greatly.
Oh well.
What’s in it for you when you keep your word? Well, for one, you’re easier to trust. You’d be seen as dependable and a person of integrity. Secondly, you are pleased with yourself when you keep your word. “I said I would do this, and I did”. Why does it make us feel so good? Why does fulfilling a promise enrich our souls? I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with our lifetime struggle to conform to the God Ideal—in this case, to conform to truth-speaking. It is often said of God that whatever He says will surely come to pass, and there’s no measure of truthfulness more perfect than the assurance that one will bring one’s words to life. And when we keep our word, we move a step closer to this ideal.
What happens when you don’t keep your word? People tend to trust you less, yes. But there’s little else demerit to you, especially when the disappointed party is mostly unknown to you. Unless you broke a promise you made to the mafia—in which case, you may expect to lose a limb or two—or you are legitimately in debt and failed to settle it when due—in which case, the law will make you pay—you’d mostly be fine. You may feel guilty if you genuinely care about the hurt party, but you’d seriously be fine. And I don’t quite like that. I don’t like that we’re free to choose how much weight our promises bear. I’d like very much if our words bore equal weight and there were penalties for every one of our broken promises. I’d like it if all our words were precious, and we gave them out only when we believe that it’s nigh impossible for us not to deliver.
I’ll admit that there’s some one-sidedness to my thinking. I’ll also admit that it’s not always easy to keep our word. Accidents happen. Misfortunes are a thing. Sometimes we’re truly incapable of fulfilling our promises. I fully understand that. I just think that this knowledge we have—that breaking a promise usually won’t damage us—encourages us to sell sweet dreams to people. Dreams that we know will only ever be dreams. Dreams in which we’ll love them when they’re no longer young and beautiful; in which we’ll show them Manchester by the sea. Dreams of taking them around the world in 80 days; of folding clothes for them. Dreams. When things fall apart, our promises turn to dust. We find someone else to sell these dreams to, and our old buyers are left hurting.
We’re all guilty of treating our words lightly. You may say that you don’t explicitly use the phrases “I promise” and “I give you my word”, and you don’t cross your fingers and hope to die when you make commitments, but that doesn’t really matter. Those things merely provide reassurance. If you commit to doing a thing, whether you swear by an oracle or you simply say, “I will do it”, you are obliged to keep your word. If you fail to do that, you’ve sold a false dream. And for those of us in the habit of adding a sprinkle of “by God’s grace” or “God willing” whenever we make commitments––as in “I will buy you this painting, by God’s grace”––so as to allow for some deniability of responsibility when we falter, well, dear friend, God, it’s said, cannot be mocked.
Fin.
P.S.
This one is a nod to Ben Howard’s Promise.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
Applause!!!!!!