Walking back from my children’s school. It’s a five-minute walk and that is a blessing, because when you live in Lagos, Nigeria, anything that helps you avoid Lagos traffic deserves thanksgiving to the high heavens.
As I am about to cross the road, it dawns on me that I have eyes to see both sides of it — to know how far or near a vehicle is.
I can hear the roar of car engines, just in case my mind plays tricks on me and I don’t gauge accurately how fast a car is moving.
I can smell. So I know the scents of flowers, or I can walk quickly past the refuse truck to avoid its stench.
And yes, I walk unaided, without a limp, but maybe with a slight bounce — I have refused to let go of my tomboy traits.
Both of my arms are swinging by my side, and I can speak properly, no slurs, no stutters, as I call out greetings to my neighbours.
What’s more, I was able to wake up this morning, to feel the sun on my skin. I could walk out of my room and down the stairs.
I am alive. I can breathe.
In the midst of the madness that everyday life can bring, just take a look at yourself and let gratitude soak in.
Take a deep breath, and as you exhale slowly, realise that you did so without difficulty, without the aid of a machine.
What’s that hymn again? Yes…”Count your blessings” written by Johnson Oatman Jr. in 1897.
Sometimes, we need to just stop and be thankful for the little things.