A few weeks ago, I saw something that’s still stuck in my head.
It was a regular Tuesday afternoon—the kind that’s not really memorable on its own. I was heading back from the tailor’s shop down the street (he still hasn’t fixed that zipper, by the way), and I decided to stop by the little provisions store near the junction to grab a bottle of malt. Nothing fancy. Just that mid-day craving hitting hard.
As I reached the shop, there was already a small crowd forming. You know the kind—tight circles, curious faces, people standing on their toes to get a better look. For a second, I thought someone might’ve fainted or maybe a fight had broken out. But then I heard the words: “She was stealing.”
Right in the middle of the crowd was a lady, probably in her late twenties, holding a torn handbag, eyes red like she’d been crying. A couple of packs of soap and a tin of milk were laid out in front of her like evidence in a courtroom. The shop owner, a middle-aged woman who everyone calls Auntie Vida, was pacing back and forth, flinging her arms and half-yelling in Twi. People around were murmuring—some shaking their heads, others filming.
Now, I don’t know this lady personally, but I’ve seen her before. She lives two streets away. Always quiet. Always walking fast, like she’s got somewhere important to be. I’ve never seen her causing trouble. Honestly, I wouldn’t have guessed.
Here’s the thing that got me though—she didn’t deny it. Not once. She just stood there, quiet. She kept saying, “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what else to do.” That sentence hit different. Not because it excuses what she did—but because it sounded real. Not like the fake sorry you say when you get caught, but the tired kind. The kind that says, “I’ve been holding things together with tape and hope, and now it’s all falling apart.”
And I know some people won’t want to hear this, but I felt bad for her.
I mean, yeah—stealing is wrong. Full stop. But sometimes I wonder: what kind of days lead someone to that point? What kind of nights, you know? When you’re hungry and the kids are crying and there's nothing in the kitchen but water and prayers. I’ve never been there, but I’ve been close enough to understand how easy it is to judge from the outside.
Some folks in the crowd wanted to take her to the police. Others suggested they just warn her and let her go. One guy (who always acts like he’s in charge of the whole neighborhood) was already talking about “setting an example.” But Auntie Vida surprised everyone. She looked her in the eyes and said, “Go. And don’t come back to this shop again.”
That was it. No police. No beating. No dragging on the ground like you sometimes see in those terrible viral videos. Just that. A firm dismissal and a chance to leave with whatever dignity
she had left.
The crowd slowly broke up after that. Some people still mumbling, others shrugging and walking away like it was just another afternoon. But I stood there for a few more minutes, just watching her disappear around the corner.
I don’t know what’ll happen to her. Maybe she’ll find help. Maybe she’ll spiral even more. I honestly don’t know. But that day reminded me of something we don’t talk about enough—people don’t always do bad things because they’re bad. Sometimes, they do them because they’re desperate. And while that doesn’t make it right, it makes it… complicated.
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