Bob The Builder:Of Fathers and Sons

Recently, I decided to do up my basement and convert it into a home office (more like a man-cave J). My son was twice as excited about the project as I was and he offered to help me out with it. So, every night for the last two weeks when I rolled up my sleeves and went down to the basement after work, my son grabbed his toolbox as well as went down with me. The only problem with this arrangement is that my son is only four years old and the only thing he and his Bob the Builder toolbox do is get in the way.

I love my son more than anything else in the world, and I absolutely love spending time with him. His enthusiasm and dedication to the project  which haven’t waned in all of two weeks make my heart swell with love and pride (the apple really didn’t fall far from the tree) and I have no doubt that he will grow up to be a fine young man. But do I need him on my project which at this rate will probably never get finished? Nah. I actually spend more time (make that all the time) distracted by him and worrying about him getting hurt than I do on the actual work that needs to be done. Does he contribute much to the progress (progress? Haha!) of the project? Err, let’s just say he’s created a whole new project all together because now his mum is trying to get rid of the dust from the plasterboard pieces he takes into the main house. But do I want my son on this project with me? Absolutely yes! Because those precious and sometimes hair-pulling moments we spend together are the threads that build up the fabric of a father-son relationship and I won’t give them up for anything, not even a very cool home office (with all the trappings of a man-cave of course).

Sometimes, I see our relationships with God in the same light. I like to believe that God calls us to work with  Him not because He can’t get the work done some other way, maybe not even because He needs our help or input, I mean, He is God, He could as well just exhale a breath and puff, a lump of clay becomes a living man. I think He calls us to mission so we can build a relationship with Him as we work alongside Him. I think serving in whatever capacity or in whatever way shouldn’t be seen as a chore but as an opportunity to build the kind of bond that probably can’t be built in any other way and I don’t think I want to give that up for anything either.

When The Fish Fished a Man

I’ve always loved the Jonah-fish/whale/sea creature story. As a kid, it gave my wild imagination a lot to chew on (we shall not go into my, err, very crazy wild imagination today). So when I got to Church today and my pastor asked us to turn to the book of Jonah, I was like preach it pastor! After having read and heard that story countless times (I even remember a picture book in which Jonah had a desk and a candle in the belly of the fish!), I was quite surprised at the whole new level my pastor took it to and I had several Eureka moments.

The first was the controversy surrounding the fish and how anatomically impossible it is for a whale to swallow a grown man. On one side of the controversy is the school of thought that the entire story couldn’t have happened, hence disproving the authenticity of the Bible. On the other side are the Bible scholars who, maybe in attempting to redeem the reputation of scriptures, say that scripture’s reference to the fish was just metaphorical and could have meant that Jonah went through a difficult and life-threatening situation after he was thrown from the ship. Now, what if it really is impossible for any sea creature at all to swallow a grown man alive? What if it is totally impossible for a man to survive in a digestive system for three long days without maybe getting digested? How was he able to breath? How did he survive three days without at least water? The questions are endless, all pointing to the impossibility of the situation but I think that is the very best explanation for that bit of scripture, it was impossible! And God is a God who shows up and makes the impossible possible. Maybe we don’t need an explanation for the fish or whatever, maybe that is where exactly faith has its work, believing in a God who makes the impossible possible. Maybe it is exactly when we reach the very constraints of reason that faith steps in.

Next Eureka moment was when the pastor said this: there is a BIG difference between discipline and punishment. In fact, they are two totally different things. Punishment is the infliction or imposition of a penalty as retribution for an offense. Discipline on the other hand is training that corrects, moulds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character. The purpose of discipline is to teach or train, to mould and build character. It is easy to say that God punished Jonah for turning tail and running in the opposite direction, but what God did instead was discipline him. That was huge for me. I can now get rid of the picture in my head of God being this man with a stern look on His face and his fist raised, waiting to punish me when I sin. Instead, I should see Him as a Father who disciplines me in love when I go wrong because He knows that my sin hurts me just as it hurts Him. And besides, God does not need to punish us for our sins anymore because guess what? Christ already took the punishment on Himself on the cross. It is finished already.

In Jonah 2, Jonah cried out to God from the belly of the fish/whale/sea creature and in verse 1 he said “in my distress, I called to the Lord, and He answered me.” The original Hebrew word translated to “distress” here is Tsarah which actually refers to the distress a woman goes through during labour. It seems like an interesting term for Jonah to use but you know what? He described his pain as one that had a promise at the end of it. It has been argued that the pain you feel when you have kidney stones is the closest thing to labour pains but you don’t get a baby at the end of that! Lesson to learn from this? Jonah prayed with understanding, he didn’t just say a prayer of hopelessness. It is one thing to cry and say “Oh God, I don’t have a job and my bills are pilling, what am I going to do? Life is hard.” It is something else entirely to say “Oh God, I don’t have a job and my bills are pilling but I know You’ll supply my needs. Life is so hard right now but You’ll always make a way and You’ll never leave me nor forsake me.” I realized today that it isn’t just enough to cry out to God, it matters how I cry out and what my understanding of God is as I cry out. Am I crying out hopelessly or in bitterness or in faith, even in the face of the most impossible of situations (ask Jonah, he knew a thing or two about impossible). One thing I need to always remember is this: God will ALWAYS come through, always. I don’t need to stress about the how or the what, He will. Who knows, maybe it just might be an ant swallowing a man next, what does it matter? God will always come through!

Eseroghene

            “Hi! My name is Sarah Parker.” She says and you smile at her.

            “I’m Ese Osemwenke.” You reply, trying hard to stop yourself from asking her if her middle name is Jessica.

She is pretty, with shoulder length hair the colour of corn silk and eyes that are very blue you can tell their colour from across the room. You try not to feel too self-conscious about the pimples you noticed on your chin this morning but your hand trails to your face all the same. You reckon that just like you, she’ll be speaking at the United Nation’s CEDAW Session; she has that confident and assured air around her that you recognize so well because it’s like looking in a mirror.

            “Your name is beautiful.” She says to you in the deep sultry voice you find hard to believe belongs to someone with such dainty features. You would have expected her voice to be wispy and bird-like.

            “Ese.” She tries it out on her tongue. “It’s beautiful, just like you are.” She says and you feel your mental shutters coming down with a loud clanging sound that threatens to burst your eardrums. You fight the burning urge to clamp your hands over your ears, to shut out the clanging, to shut out her beautiful contralto.

You’ve heard those words a million times too many and you know just how quickly they can turn ugly as soon as people see what’s beneath the carefully painted façade. You have learned the hard way how fickle and fleeting acceptance and respect usually are. You know that no matter how forward thinking the world thinks it is, biases still run deep in the DNA of the human race.

No one likes the messy stories.

No one is comfortable with wounds or scars or the not-perfect lives. So your smile widens, showing your straight, white teeth with the tiny gap between your incisors. Yes, you smile and even offer inane comments here and there, but you push all thoughts of the sexual abuse, first from the house girl, then from uncle Ighenegbai, into that place you have sworn will never see the light of day.

You imagine how the easy rapport she has built with you in so little time will disappear if she knew. You know how she will flounder, try not to show how uncomfortable she is with being uncomfortable with your damagedness, how she will try not to make too much of it and then wonder if she’s making too little of it. You know that whether she judges you or feels sorry for what you’ve been through, it will distance her from you because you’re the broken toy.

She is saying now that she has seen a bit of the world and you hope she doesn’t ask if you’re from Africa and what the country is like apart from all the starving children and the safaris.

            “I have been to Cape Town. Your accent doesn’t sound South African.” She says and you’re impressed.

            “I’m Nigerian.” You say but you don’t tell her that your life had been far from the pictures of emaciated children the media is filled with. You don’t say that you were born with a silver spoon shoved down your throat and that you had been expected to live a stereotype because of it. You don’t talk about how no one took you seriously, especially because you were a girl-child and that you were told to enjoy daddy’s money until a rich suitor came along. You don’t tell her that you defied daddy and got that job anyway, or that when you refused to sleep with the boss, he fired you and told everyone you were just a spoilt brat who was clueless on the job. You don’t tell her that growing up, you were not expected to have a mind of your own and most people either labelled you spoilt for taking advantage of daddy’s fortunes or spoilt for not.

            “I have done a fair share of travelling too.” You tell her.

            “Great! Whereabouts have you been?” she asks, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

            “I lived in Scotland for a few years.” You say, but you leave out the part of fleeing two weeks before the wedding your authoritarian father had planned for you. Of course you don’t mention the fact that your father had chosen your suitor without consulting you, or that your would-be groom had been almost twice your age.

            “I visited Edinburgh, spent a few days there.” She says. “What was it like living in Scotland?” she asks and you tell her about the beautiful landscapes, the enchanting way the brogue rolls and sloshes off the tongues of the natives and the amazing landmarks. What you say nothing about is how difficult it was to fit in and how you were the one with the weird accent. You say nothing about the veiled racist remarks or the time ‘Niggar Whore’ was spray painted on your car. You don’t tell her of the lecturer who refused to answer your question because you said ‘Eh-din-borg’ instead of ‘Eh-din-bu-rah’ and how the entire class had dissolved in laughter.

            “I returned to Nigeria after eight years.” You say.

            “Wow, you must have missed home during that time.” She replies.

Yes you did, every single day of those eight years, but you had been trying to find yourself and you hadn’t been sure how best to do that, and the days had just continued to roll into each other. You don’t tell her that despite missing home, you hadn’t been able to return because your father had cut you off and had forbidden you to come back. You can’t tell her how much you regret not reconciling with him before he died and how at the funeral, you had still been the outcast.

            “After that, I lived in Brisbane for a few years.” You continue.

You don’t mention how finally going back home had only made things worse. You don’t say anything about how the people you had left back home either envied you for having flown the coop or resented you for leaving. You don’t bring up the people who consider you selfish and self-serving or those who call you unpatriotic, the ones whose eyes scream traitor.

            “Then work took me to Perth and then Auckland for a couple of years.”

            “Did you return home to Nigeria often?” she asks.

You give a non-committal shrug and say yes, a few times over the years. You don’t say anything about how you never felt like you belonged there anymore and how home felt even stranger than all the places you’ve been to. You gloss over the fact that you started to experience a new kind of discrimination, one even worse than what you suffered at the hands of foreigners. You don’t tell her how you’ve become the outsider everywhere you go, how you’re not even sure of where home is anymore.

No one wants to see brokenness.

You share with her instead, your adventures and all the glamorous places you’ve seen. You both bond over your shared cities, two strangers who are clicking on the surface. Two strangers who will likely become friends without getting to the messiness beneath. You know this very well because you have learned to play this game like a pro and have perfected the fine art of creating charades. It is the only way you know to survive; you paint on your face, wear your picture-perfect masquerade like an armour and plough on through life.

You see her eyes flick to your hands which are in your laps and you self-consciously pull your sleeve over the scar on your left wrist before you can stop yourself. The scar is old and belongs in another lifetime but you know from bitter experience that people will always define you by it. You’re not interested in anyone’s pity or judgement. You look up at her defiantly and what you see in her eyes surprises you.

She leans over and lays a hand on your arm.

            “I’m a survivor too.” She says with so much tenderness and you are surprised even further when you burst into tears.

Maybe, just maybe, you don’t always have to be the strong one.

*This story was originally published in the 2016 edition of the Ake Review.

Princess Diaries:Enraptured

Dear Mr. AJ,

First and foremost, I think congratulations are in order so from one Princess-Daddy to another, welcome to the club of the Elite!

I’m sure you know by now that this changes everything. From that first amazing moment you hold a Princess in your arms and look into that beautiful and seemingly helpless face, the power-shift happens and a new Boss takes over.

She will bring sunshine and colour and texture and flavour into your life and only then will you become aware of all the grey, flat plains that were in it before now (especially if you were a self-absorbed wuss like I was). You’ll be amazed at all you’ll learn from your tiny little tot, about life, about yourself, about mundane things you didn’t even know existed. Best of all, you’ll learn a new kind of loving, giving and receiving it.

You’ll learn anew the meaning of vulnerability and how utterly beautiful and fulfilling it can be. You’ll discover the hero in you, not just for your Princess but for yourself. You’ll get more than just a few grey hairs (oh yes you will!) and come to see each one as a badge of honour that you’re immensely proud of.

Each day will bring its own little treasure and I wish I could possibly put to words all the wonder and adventures that await you but I couldn’t possibly do it if I tried. And even if I could, nothing, absolutely nothing can compare to actually unwrapping each precious treasure for yourself. You are in for a great ride my friend, congratulations!

I know as the days roll into years, you’ll start to collect your own Princess-Diary memories. They will become some of your most prized possessions so treasure them, savour them, luxuriate in them. I hope that we can get to share our treasures with each other and I hope our precious Princesses get to know each other as well.

Till we meet again, probably in another dressing room with your little girl in tow, I remain yours’ Knightedly,

SB

God's Little Helper

Yesterday, I was going to be God’s not-so-little helper. Yep, I was going to give God a tiny bitty hand. My three year old had come to me yesterday, his face looking like someone had cancelled Christmas.

        “Mommie, I can’t find Rory!” he’d wailed. “I’ve looked everywhere for him, but he’s disappeared!” he said, thrusting out his lower lip and fighting hard not to burst into tears.

My son has an obsession with racing cars (which I hope he’ll get over really soon) and he’ll spend hours on end either playing with his toy cars or watching any car related cartoon. I even caught him once, totally fixated on the TV, watching a Formula 1 race (helping him get over that obsession is probably another thing I’m willing to help the Lord with!). How he even managed to tune the TV from CBeebies to Formula 1 (loun loun!) is still beyond me. Of his collection, Rory was his favourite (at least for the next two weeks or so until another one catches his fancy) and I could imagine how devastating losing his precious Rory was to him.

        “Mommie, can we pray that God will bring Rory back?” he asked earnestly and my heart constricted in my chest. My sweet little boy knew to pray about the little things! That’s a lesson Mommie can like to re-learn oh!

        “Yes darling, we can do that.” I replied.

When he went to bed last night, he told me that he wasn’t sad anymore because he knew that when he woke up in the morning, Rory would be back on his shelf with his other cars. I believed him absolutely because Mommie was going to make sure of it.

That’s how last night, I drove to the 24 hour ASDA not too far from the house and marched resolutely to the aisle that I always eyed evilly because it was the cause of many trips over toy cars, the incessant noise of whirring toy engines, a blocked toilet (don’t ask!) and a wrecked vacuum cleaner. You won’t believe it but last night of all nights, not only did they not have a Rory racing car, they did not have any toy cars at all! Panicked, I asked the guy stocking the shelves adjacent to me and he smiled apologetically at me and said “Oh, we just ran out.” Imagine! They didn’t run out all those times that my son made me buy car after car after car oh! They didn’t run out the time he dropped not one, but THREE cars into my shopping cart and I didn’t find out until we got to check out, mba. They didn’t run out the time I stood my ground and told him NO and all the other shoppers turned to look at me like I should have had a special feature on Bad Moms, iro oh. The one time that I actually carried my two legs waka come, to willingly buy a car, a whole ASDA did not have! Did these people even realize this was a matter of heavenly urgency? Were they trying to sabotage my son’s prayers? I know he will one day have to grow up and realize that life doesn’t always go the way we want it to, but biko, that day wasn’t today!

I returned home, racking my brain trying to think of an explanation to give him when he discovered his prayer had not been answered. I tossed and turned all night, fuming at the audacity of ASDA, running out of racing cars of all things. Awon alai nikan shey!

When I went to wake him up this morning, what did I find clutched in his fist? You got it right, a shiny red Rory. I just stood there and stared. It was a truly humbling moment, seeing the truth that my little boy had the simple faith I lacked. In trying to help God fix the problem, all I’d succeeded in doing was waste my time and my fuel and my peace and a good night’s sleep. God had answered the prayer while I was running around ASDA like a headless chicken. As was with Sarah, God had looked into the future and had seen beyond Isaac all the way to Jesus, while Sarah was still busy prepping Hagar for the job.

Did I learn a few lessons today? You bet! The most profound of them I think is this: God-sized problems don’t fit mommie-sized hands.

Metallic Yellow Ferraris

        “Stop picking at it!” my sister Ese says. “You’ll get a really ugly scar.”

I ignore her and continue to worry the wound that sits just under my jaw. I look at the purplish skin surrounding it in the mirror above the dresser. The almost two inch long gash that is beginning to itch as it heals fascinates me, and contrary to my sister’s fears, I think the scar it will leave behind will be beautiful, the most beautiful one I wear.

        “I’m just so happy you finally made it here.” Ese says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.” She says and starts to tear up.

I smile at her through the mirror and lay a hand on hers.

Thank you I mouth to her and she smiles.

        “Get some sleep.” She says. “You’ve had a tough couple of days.”

That is true. I am thousands of miles away from home, farther than I’ve ever been before, and I am drained, both emotionally and physically. I caress my wound one more time as I get up from the dresser. It will add to my eclectic repertoire of scars. I got it a week ago, but I’ve been collecting scars the last thirteen years. This scar I know I will wear like a badge. This one I know will make my head stand high.

My very first scar was a trilogy of 9.25 carat diamond stones. They sit in all their queenly glory atop a band of white gold on whose inside is inscribed mine and Káyòdé’s initials, always and forever. That scar I got the day we got engaged - the very first time he hit me. That time was a mistake, he reassured me of that. He had been going through a really tough time at work and had been very stressed out. I didn’t have to go and ruin the engagement moment by running off to call my sister whom he dislikes very much with the news. That day he broke something in me even though I didn’t realize it then and that beautiful rock-scar sits smack on the very centre of my ego.

 Àrínolá Fernandez is the scar disfiguring my self-esteem. We’d been married two years when I found out he’d been cheating with her. When I confronted him, he’d sneered and thrown it in my face that I was so lucky he’d married plain, ordinary me when he could have had any girl he wanted. He’d pointed out that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine that Àrínolá was more sophisticated than I was and looked at least a decade younger even though we were best friends and had grown up together in Ìkòyí.

My mother is the scar that used to be hope. Truly, there is no real despair without hope. When he broke my wrist following the confrontation about Àrínolá, I moved back home to mother in righteous indignation, hoping to get a sympathetic ear in my corner. Why would he cheat and then still knock me around? Mother had cut me short in my rant and had told me to wipe my tears and stop my whining.

        “Life is no bed of roses.” she’d said. “And marriage is no exception. You have to be strong because men will be men. Questioning his authority is not the way to go. The true strength of a woman is in her ability to still keep her marriage despite all these things. What will people say if they hear that the daughter of Chief Osemwenke left her husband’s house? Do you know how much I’ve had to put up with and all I took from your father, all just so you and your sisters could have a good life?”

One of the biggest scars I wear is thirty-five hundred pounds of metallic Yellow perfection. A majestic beast at just 47 inches high, with a twin-turbo engine packing over 600 horse-power, reaching 100mph in 6 seconds, one of Ferrari’s most exquisite creations. This was for the Baby we lost because he’d lost a great deal of money when the value of the Naira plummeted against the Dollar. That had been a very difficult time for him and he had been a little frustrated. He really hadn’t meant to hurt me or our child, he would never even think of it! I was his entire universe and our unborn child had been the very best thing that had happened to him. He had tried to prove that to me when he presented me with the keys to the car while I was still in the hospital. That car has its coveted position snug under my breast, where my heart used to be; it died along with our child that night.

A few weeks after I lost the Baby, I left Káyòdé for the first time. Or tried to. He’d found me after all of 13 hours and he’d reiterated what my mother told me, a woman’s place is with her husband. He told me the beating that came afterwards was totally my fault and that one was all on me; why did I go and provoke him that way right after he’d bought me such an expensive gift? How ungrateful could I be?

As I snuggle under the covers in the guest room of my sister’s Town house, I tuck my hands under my chin, not minding that my wound is still very sore. I know my face still looks stunning despite the discoloured skin and the bruising. In all our time together, Káyòdé never left a mark on me, not to talk of scars. Yes I’ve broken a few ribs, my wrist, my collar bone and my ankle, but nothing that left a permanent mark on the surface. He was always very careful about that, no matter how angry he was. He was a man who loved beautiful things and his wife could be no different. Heaven forbid that I didn’t look perfect along with his cars and designer suits and houses and his 140 ft. yacht.

A little smile relaxes my lips from their characteristic hard line and I heave a contended sigh. Two weeks ago, I left him again, right after I’d seen the lines on the stick. I’d known it was no longer just about me and that had given me the courage to get up and leave. Of course he found me, just like he’d warned me. But this time round, I fought back. I let him know I was done being afraid of him. I told him he might as well kill me right then because I would keep leaving until I was well rid of him. He’d lost it then. I’m not sure if it was rage at my audacity to talk back at him, or if it was surprise that I could actually stand up to him, but something snapped in him and he attacked me right there in the lobby of the hotel I’d been holed up in. That was the first time he would hit me in public, the first time he would do it without a care. The terrifying thought of losing my Baby again turned me into a crazed woman and I fought him. I scratched and bit and kicked and screamed and scratched some more. Until two policemen were pulling him off me. I didn’t care that the crowd around us was gawping. I didn’t care that he was still spitting threats and curses at me as the policemen took him away. I didn’t care that my face was puffy and bleeding and that my eyes were swelling shut. All I cared about was the little life growing inside of me.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I declined the policeman’s offer of a ride home. I declined his offer to call my mother on his mobile. I took what little belongings I had with me and got on a cab to the airport. I bought a ticket, got a plane and didn’t look back.

Of all my scars, this is the only one I will wear visibly and I will wear it proudly because it is the one I got fighting back. It is the one I got getting my life back. It is the one that will make all the others fade away.

This story was written for the 5th Anniversary Writing Contest hosted by Short Fiction Break (with the theme Scars) and has previously been published here.

Giddi Commute: Abegi Sir

This evening’s drama was straight out of a bad Nollywood movie. It started out as the normal story, dánfó driver on Lékkí-Èpé Expressway driving nonsense. He scratches someone’s Prado Jeep and tries to escape. Mr. Prado Jeep gives chase and of course he catches us after all of two minutes. Where exactly did Mr. Dánfó driver think he was running to, what with the usual traffic on Lékkí-Èpé Express way? So, Mr. Prado catches us and steps out of his car in full military uniform. Kpekélé kpekèlè, arúgbó je gbèsè! Of all the Jeeps in Lagos, this dánfó driver went to scratch a soldier’s own! I don’t know much about the Nigerian Army but the guy’s uniform looked so impressive, he must have been a top guy.

The passengers who had been raining abuses on the driver before then became subdued and kept shut. You know how when someone presses the mute button and the TV just shuts up kpam? That’s how we all just swallowed our voices as if on cue.

The Soldier simply went to the driver’s side, pulled his door open and dragged him out by his shirt.

        “Oga abeg…” the driver started. The rest was silenced with a bone shattering slap.

Kai, I felt that slap from where I was sitting. The driver tried to fall to his knees (or maybe his knees just gave way beneath him) but Oga Soldier simply dragged him up by his shirt and delivered another slap. At this point, we all overcame or speechlessness and started to beg earnestly on behalf of the driver. The conductor went over to prostrate himself flat in front of the Soldier but mba, him no gree. Before we knew it, some minion Soldiers had arrived at the scene. Of course, a big boy Soldier like that one doesn’t walk alone. They just jejely took Mr. driver and carried him to their pick up truck and drove off with him.

        “Ah, tiè ba lóòní!” someone exclaimed.

        “The kain beat he will chop today ehn?”

        “Na where dem dey carry am go?” a woman asked.

I was thinking the same thing but was afraid of what the answer would be.

        “Ah, dem dey carry am go barracks be that!”

        “When him see Soldier again, him go run!”

        “Conductor, you no go go look for your driver?”

        “Abi oh, you no go go bail am out?”

        “Na where him wan go look for am?”

        “If he follow them, them go just beat am join!”

        “Abeg, who sabi drive for here?” That from the conductor.

We all stopped in our commiserations when it hit us that we were now sans a driver and had only just reached Ìkàté.

        “Ah, it’s true oh, how person go reach Àjáh now?”

        “Abeg give me my money oh make I join another bus.”

The pity party was over. People really weren’t smiling at all.

        “Make una no worry, we go reach Àjáh.” The conductor said.

        “How? We go fly?”

        “Abeg no waste time jàre, make we quickly find another bus enter.”

        “This man go sabi drive the bus.” The conductor said, pointing to a man on the second row.

All our collective necks swung to look at the man. The man sef swung his head to see our would-be savior only for him to find all eyes on him.

        “Me ke?!” he exclaimed.

        “How you take know say him sabi drive?” someone demanded.

        “Abi you don become Octopus Paul?” someone else said.

        “Na wetin be that?” some other guy asked.

        “Na where you for dey when them dey play World Cup?”

        “Which one consign me consign World Cup?”

        “See you, them never born you that time.”

        “Shey you even sabi who Obasanjo be?”

        “How I no go sabi that one?!”

        “If Octopus Paul still dey alive, he for tell us tey tey say PDP no go enter again!”

        “Abeg stop that nonsense! Him for warn us say na like this e go dey be!”

Were these people for real at all?! We were stranded here by the side of the high way and they’re arguing over Octopus Paul! Lagos really is a crazy place.

        “Oga, abeg come drive the moto commot for here.” The conductor implored.

        “How you take know say I sabi drive?” the would-be savior asked.

        “I see as you dey control the driver.”

Say what? What does that even mean.

                “True oh, im dey tell am to cut him hand that time when he jam that soh-ja!”

As in seriously! So that’s all that’s needed to qualify for the driver’s seat?

In a heartbeat, everyone on the bus was swearing by their mothers that they just knew that the man was the black reincarnation of double-oh-seven himself.

        “I sabi drive the bus but na Igbó Efòn I dey go oh. After that one you dey on your own.” The man finally conceded.

        “Oga, nothing do you, abeg help our situation.” The conductor begged.

        “Na wetin you wan make I do? I no go go house?”

        “Chairman no worry, I go settle you bus money reach Igbó Efòn, just hep me drive this bus reach Àjáh abeg.”

Long story short oh, the conductor psyched the man sotey he agreed to drive us all the way to Àjáh without jamming anyone’s car on the way! This is Lagos after all, what else is new under the sun?!