You forcefully open the double doors to your room to see your reflection in the large spotless mirror staring at you, as you try to avoid the Master. Your image kills the mustard seed of hope you have been trying to nurture – your eyes exhausted from too many tears. Your lips are chapped, and the glory of your skin is in the past - your beautiful skin as your mother would remark. You wonder if it’s because of its fairness or the hairless sight of it, or the chubby feeling when touched. And then you reckon the eyes of your mother are not yours. Your beauty lies in your freedom, you think to yourself. You affirm that you don’t belong here, not in this castle with grey walls, lofty ceilings, and heavy brown curtains. Not viewing ancient paintings of wars. Not on a bed for a crowd and certainly not wearing these expensive clothes too pure to smear. You recall the first day of your arrival at your new home. You were greeted by a servant who avoided your eyes as he bowed his head and sai...
“Driver you no sabi anything. Abeg give me space make I show you how to beat this yeye traffic wey be like wetin winch dey invoke to life.” That black uniform, that desperate voice making us question what the law stood for these days, was part of us Lagosians returning home from our various hard-knock lives, on a Friday evening, 7:00 pm. From Obalende to Yaba we prayed for a free passage since Lagos signed a con tract with “go slow.” It is not the only thing slow about us. The Police become your friend when all odds are against the populace. They can even break the law to make you safe. Isn’t it ironic? The Police become your friend when it rains and they need shelter in your store or your vehicle or your shack. The police were more than a friend to us when we found ourselves positioned in a single spot for an hour. Traffic became our common enemy. Passengers cursed, drivers lamented: “petrol wen pesin buy today now go finish today.” Radios w...