I am in a bus. After yesterday’s fiasco, I vow to mind my business.
No peeping into people’s phones. No trying to correct text messages of anxious lovers. No looking into buses. It’s valentine’s day anyway so I’m super wired up.
I bring out the bread and akara I bought from the boys at the junction. I spread the bread and insert the big… soft…red… balls inside.
I lift the combo to my lips and take a bite.
I chew slowly, ignoring the long-throat man staring at my breakfast.
I take another bite and moan. Akara and Agege hit my G-spot every time. It’s like a lover who knows what note to hit…what key to use, how high to go and how to deliver a worthy rendition.
At the end, I’ll have no choice but to burst into a thunderous…
I continue my meal in peace. The conductor taps me.
“Aunty no vex. I wan ask you question”
I sigh. The Danfo demons are here. They have found me. They mock me even. They sneer and say: Syn baby, no dey do shakara for us. Na we we. Babe, shake body jare. We are loyal na. So because of small jazz wey you see yesterday make you quiet? Mama for the boys! Oya shake bodi jooh!
I turn to the conductor and bark “Wetin?” In my mind, I am like, that aunty of yesterday sent you, abi?
“This akara and bread wey you dey chop…If man buy am for you when una commot , you go like am?
I sigh. Another relationship-problem-cum-pseudo-feminist-debate I have to chook mouth. Lagos, why are you seducing me?
I answer: “Yes na. No be food”?
“Taa! Woman no go gree chop am. Na Mr Biggs and fried rice them like”
“Why you go buy bread and akara for woman when you commot? Wetin do fried rice?”
“You see the way you dey chop bread and akara now for this bus, no be every woman go chop am outside”
I want to tell him several things. I want to tell him I am not flattered. I want to tell him that human beings are not the same. I want to tell him that requesting for fried rice on a date is not a big deal. I want to tell him that eating akara and bread outside doesn’t stop me from going to ColdStone in a micro mini gown to order for 5k icecream.
I want to tell him that he should save his money and leave chewing gum girls. I want to prevent any lady from breaking his heart and running away with his money. I want to tell him that stinginess will not let him make heaven. I want to tell him to focus on his work; leave Lagos, return to a serene environment and live large with a wife who eats akara all day and children that may never know the difference between abakaliki rice and basmatic rice.
Yet, I take a moment to look at his face and see the deep grooves there. The lines of worry; of regret; of suffering ; of hardwork ; of societal pressure; of heartbreak. I see deep lines; trophies of the daily war he faces…I put my nose close to his body and inhale…
sweat; the fragrance of daily battles fought, daily demons crushed and daily tears dried…
I smile and say nothing.
On a second thought, I say to him: “Face your hustle. You go see your own woman”.
He nods, jumps down from the bus and does just that…
“CMS…Hol ya #150 change o…”