This is going to be a silly one.
Do you believe in miracles? I do.
I believe in the big miracles: sudden and unexpected healing, sudden and unexpected promotion.
And I also believe in the “small” miracles. That’s what I experienced. That’s what the immortal gas was.
It happened about 2 years ago.
At that time I lived in my nation’s capital city, Accra; but I would be moving out soon.
I had just made a big purchase so money was tight. Before this, I was prone to sudden cravings and fancies. I loved to go on night drives with no destination in mind. As soon as my budget shrunk, I suddenly discovered the joys of staying home and eating the local roadside cuisine.
With 3 months left till the date I had to leave my apartment, I went out and refilled my gas cylinder. I bought 20 cedis. At that time I didn’t cook that much. If I lit a fire I was either frying sausage for breakfast or boiling an egg.
But money was tight and so I promised myself I would cook more. Cooking is cheaper than eating out after all.
As the gas attendant filled the cylinder, I looked to the sky. “Lord please let this last,” I said. “At least until when I leave.” That was all. A simple prayer. I barely mumbled the words, to be honest.
I went home and thought nothing of it.
I began to cook, and cook…and cook. I used that gas nearly every day.
Whenever I struck a match, the fire roared to life.
Midway through the second month, my rice cooker stopped working. ‘Oh boy.’ I thought to myself. The rice cooker was essential to me. I basically lived on a “rice plus” diet; the bachelor life.
Had it occurred at any other time, I would have sent it for repairs or bought a new rice cooker, but my budget put a new rice cooker made a new rice cooker a non-starter, and honestly the idea to send it for repairs (the cheaper option) never came to mind.
Instead, I started to boil rice the old-fashioned way: in a pot. I was using more gas.
On I went. Now using gas more often than I ever had.
Yet, whenever I struck a match, the fire roared to life.
Midway through my last month in the apartment, I began to notice the strangeness of the situation.
I remember walking to my kitchen one day for no other reason than to stare at the tiny cylinder.
I walked over to it and hefted it up. It felt so light.
I set it down and struck a match. The fire roared to life.
“Mmm.” I hummed to myself. “Amazing.”
That was when the name was born: The immortal gas.
In the 2 years I had stayed in my apartment, no gas cylinder had ever lasted that long, despite my light use.
It was all very strange; and unfortunately, I also became very strange.
I began to greet the gas cylinder. “Hello, immortal gas.” Then I would strike a match, the fire would roar to life, and I would laugh.
Yes, I became very strange indeed.
It continued. The fire never dwindled. I cooked and cooked and survived my period of financial woe.
The night before I was to leave I decided to fry an egg.
I walked over to the immortal gas, struck a match, and…nothing. No fire.
I sat down on a stool and laughed more than I should have.
Then I did the strangest thing yet. I said thank you to the immortal gas.
“Thank you for keeping me till now.”
I made a mistake. I should have thanked God.
So that was it. My little miracle. The little gas cylinder who could. The immortal gas.
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