Recognizing her, behind her disguise of a cheap hat, low-grade shades, disoriented make-up, no earrings, her worn-out blouse and tattered jeans, she prevented a shriek from escaping my lips, as she covered my mouth with her cupped right hand. I swallowed my shriek and promised her with my eyes and a gesture of putting my hands together that her secret was safe with me. She was Sylvia Waterwood– The Sylvia Waterwood–the renowned motivational speaker, CEO of Beautiful Light, and the secretary of the nation’s Bureaucratic System. I was seated beside Sylvia Waterwood, not anywhere, but in the poorly-conditioned public bus. With a tenth of her wealth, I wouldn’t even look at the bus, even if it passed by me, so I calmly questioned her when she removed her cupped hand. “Ma’am, what are you doing here?”
“Well, taking the bus.” She shrugged.
“Obviously,” I let out a slight chuckle, “but why will The Sylvia Waterwood take the public bus?” I asked her, and she went silent. For a moment, I thought she was bankrupt– and that would have made me rich, because all reporters would be willing to give anything for a story like this, so I took my phone out and sneakily tapped the record button.
“I took the bus to find my roots,” she answered, then, I saw her face reflect a gloomy grimace–that’s if it wasn’t her poorly done make-up.
“Your roots?” I furrowed my brows.
“Yes, my roots.” She looked at me through her shades, then, looked down. “There is so much pressure in making a difference, that if you don’t focus on the path you must take, you might end up joining the distorted crowd.” She said, looked up at me and gave me a wry smile, “This was my spot in the bus, since I was five– I coiled up in this seat or on my mother’s lap, everytime I was in the bus.” She told me, looked around at our fellow passengers, and continued, “Everyone in this bus wants to be great. Also, almost everyone in this bus is going through one kind of hurt or another, but they are content–not satisfied with what they have, but trusting the process of being great.” She stated.
“Watch how that young man gives up his seat for the old man, who just boarded.” She said, and just then, the young man did exactly that. “Watch how his feet twitches as he stands.” She turned my attention to the young man’s feet, and I saw him slightly shake his feet for some time. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to sit, it’s more about who needs it more than he does. Seated in this spot, my spot, since I was five, I watched it happen a lot of times, and when I got the understanding at age ten, I never forgot to give up my seat for someone who needed it more than I did.” She told me, but looked down, and continued, “But now, what another person needs seems not to matter to me. All I seem to care about is myself, and being noticed– trying to climb the ladder of ambitious gains all by myself, not thinking about who I must hurt, or whose continuity is at stake.” She paused for a while, and continued with a wry smile, “Seated here at age ten, I wanted to be great, as I watched expensive cars drive passed the bus. To get there, I needed to do a lot, so I sold all kinds of itinerary on the street to save up and better myself. I wanted to fill the empty void my mother had after we lost my father. I wanted to see her smile all the time– and that made me love the church, because anytime my mother visited the church, she had that dashing smile,” she told me, and looked down, “but about a week ago, for the first time in 22years– thus, since my father died– my mother wept bitterly–and, it was because of who I had turned into. Even, when she cried, I walked out on her and drove off, but in the midst of heavy traffic, a young girl walked up to my car, knocked on my car window, and begged that I buy what she was selling; chocolate bars. That was when ten-year-old Sylvia resurfaced– the young girl who trusted the process, loved her mother’s smile and longed for it, depended on God’s words for every decision– the one whose needs didn’t matter, if it meant killing the heart of others.” She looked outside the window and added, “So I’m here to remember my roots and remain along my path– where God directs that I follow. Like the roots of a plant carries nutrients from its soil giving it enough boost to grow, so do my roots, the process of climbing my success ladder, matter in grooming me into being who God wants me to be. My humble beginnings remain the lessons I must hold on to in my field of greatness.” She said.
Just then, two old men boarded the bus. She quickly gave up her seat for one, and I didn’t hesitate to give up my seat for the other. Now, I’m on my way to the church I swept and mopped, when I hadn’t reached my peak of success. I’m going to do more than sweep and mop this time, because I must allow the teachings of my humble beginnings to dwell in me, that I may not compromise to the ways of the distorted crowd.” She smiled. “So I took the bus to remember my roots– to recall my humble beginnings.” She concluded.
“Thank you so much for this, Miss Waterwood.” I was grateful for her words.
“No, dear. Thank you!” She smiled. “I didn’t get your name.” She said.
“Penelope. Penelope Kris.”
“Nice to meet you, Penelope. I look forward to meeting you again.”
She got off the bus at the church’s bus stop and bid me farewell.
Till date, I listen to the recording everyday.
