Just a little sin

  His eyes swept the rodent infested room that stank of poverty. 'Soon all this will be a distant memory' he thought. Picking up the small leather box, he began the journey that would soon send him wealth like the rain in September.
      The bus conductor was suspicious of the shabbily dressed man who wouldn't let anyone touch his luggage. 'This is how they carry bombs ' he whispers to the driver.
         'Ten more minutes' he would deliver what was demanded and he will receive what was promised. He was shaken out of his day dream of all the beautiful things his newly found wealth would acquire
' oga wetin dey that your box wey you dey carry like egg?  '  it was the conductor ' open am make we see ' he froze, suddenly feeling like he was suffocating. The driver brought the vehicle to a halt by the roadside to allow the drama ensue with more convenience . ' I say open the box ' the conductor getting impatient was trying to pry it from his hands . He began to panic ' it's clothes ' he explained ' open make we see ' he thought of making a run for it, but he was locked between other commuters. He opened the box. The  bus was filled with screams of terror, as passengers close to the exit scrambled out ,and others shrieked backwards, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the bags sole content. A child no older than three, dressed up, folded and cold. Dead. His son.
       This story is as true as the Pope is Catholic. He was one of us, someone's husband, a woman's son, a child's role model, a neighbour, a friend. Poverty is not an excuse for inhumanity. How far is far enough when money is the end result? It was just a little sin or so he thought.