It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
I was weighing 43 at that time. It was not easy balancing school with work. But I needed money. The money my parents were sending was not covering up my needs. I needed a backup and that was why I took a job at an African restaurant, owned by a Nigerian couple back then in London. Jobs like this were reserved for students or for the undocumented. I could not babysit because the timing would clash with my class hours and that was why I settled with washing plates in this restaurant after classes. I had done this for a week and could notice my fingers fading away but I didn’t mind at all. All I pictured was my monthly pay. The next week; on a Wednesday, after classes I resumed work as usual. I had washed the first round of plates and then I heard the voice of my boss (the wife) saying: “Favour, you will be the one pounding yam from today. It is part of your job description…” That voice echoed in my head and it still does till today. It echoed when I nodded in ag...