18/12/2025
the humid, neon-lit chaos of the Federal Ministry of Cosmic Distribution somewhere in the federal capital of Nigeria, Empathy—fondly called “Sister Em”—was facing a disciplinary panel.
The air conditioner was humming a dying tune, and the room smelled of stale meat pies Stale perfumes mixed with sweat and bureaucracy.
Sister Em sat on a plastic chair, wearing a vibrant Ankara print that seemed to pulsate with the heartbeat of everyone in a five-kilometer radius.”Sister Empathy,” boomed the Chairman, a man whose heart was made of Solid Iron and Strict Protocol. “You are a liability to the National Grid. You were assigned to a LASTMA official on Ikorodu Road. The job was simple: seize the bus, collect the ‘fine,’ and maintain the status quo.”The Chairman slammed a folder onto the desk. “Instead, what did you do?”
Empathy sighed, a very deep sigh, before answering; “I put him in the shoes of the driver, by first, letting him feel the heat of the driver’s engine through the floorboards. I let him feel the driver’s ‘inner-man’—the one thinking about the school fees for three kids and the wife waiting for N2,000 for soup ingredients.”In the end, the officer didn’t just see a traffic violator; he felt the salt of the driver’s sweat on his own brow. He began to contemplate the structural failure of urban planning that forced a man to drive eighteen hours a day just to afford a bowl of garri and soup. The officer didn’t just let the driver go; he gave him a sachet of cold pure water and told him, “Oga, go home. Your eyes are red. Life is hard, but we go survive.”
He didn’t even take a bribe! the Chairman screamed. “In this economy? You are devaluing our global currency of ‘Each Man for Himself’!”Sister Empathy stood up, her wrappers swishing with a sound like a quiet ssshhhh to a crying baby. She looked at the panel— each man seated on the panel, were men who lived in houses with high walls and even higher electric fences.
https://ascenixconsulting.com/emphaty/
