THE NIGERIAN LIFE: DIARY OF A YOUNG SCHOOL LEAVER.
It’s Monday morning, I donned on my best cloth and pray Baba God to please bless my hustle today. As I make my way to Oshodi, my stomach groan to remind me I have not had anything to eat since 5pm yesterday, well I am only feeding my focus, which right now is getting to the companies and dropping these documents. The morning seems perfect, no black cat crossed my path, traffic is light, the conductor was gentle, nothing could go wrong.
At Oshodi, I held on to my bag tightly as I joined the growing crowds of early risers heading for their various businesses and workplace, which also include pick-pocketing I could be rushed and an item in my bag could go missing, and it could be the new infinix phone you bought to join social media perhaps my employer would be on the timeline or the #500 transport back home or the #200 you have for gala and Pepsi. My livelihood depends on this one bag.
With the nicest smile I approach the first company and a grumpy security man –possibly from still covering up for his latecomer colleague, his breath stinks- answers me and ask what I want, boldly I request to see HR and I am asked the almighty question you ‘ Do you have an appointment?’, I reply No sir, ‘Do you know someone?’ I are tempted to say God but the look on the man’s face tells a thousand tale of which laughter isn’t one. I shake my head meekly hoping for sympathy and the man tells you drop my envelope there, there where it’s never going to pass but I hope it does, I hope it doesn’t belong to the woman selling puff-puff by the corner.
I try 5 more companies and never have I had a déjà vu feeling this strong. Mopping my brows with an hanky which looks forward to its RIP days, I then remember the professor that made my life a living hell, the nights classes I went, the mosquitoes that bit me, every tiny detail that made school hellish crossed my mind at that very moment, I felt cursed, what did I do to deserve this, my dying off is better than these abject poverty I find myself in.
With this frustration I make my way home – home to six boys, the other five pay the rent I am the pitied, picked-up-from-gutter squatter- as I walk along an ongoing road construction, so does a trailer which clothes me with dust talk about adding salt and pepper to an injury.
I made an attempt to dust myself, but decided against it, was going home anyways, nobody cared and loved me, so why not save energy.
In the bus I take a seat at the rear end close to the window, traffic as accumulated so as my ignored hunger pangs, the tanker beside the bus, heaving seriously as though it has asthma, before I could blink, it let out a puff of smoke directly on my face, well this was the steam needed to cook my frustration.
The ocean looked so beautiful, the water to which I contorted my face with disgust, now looks like Nirvana to me. As I decide what style and manner I want to approach the end of my sorrow and maybe the beginning of my bliss –death-, choosing between the dive or thunderbolt was never this hard during my swimming days. While wondering which style will have the most impact, I hear the conductor call out, ‘‘Last bus stop, everyone out’’.
There goes my Shiloh, grudgingly I alight and start my trek home, I then decide to become a god of second chance, giving life a second chance, to make up for its bad behavior, or else life will come to know how thin the line is between itself and death.
Until then, let me set scores right with my stomach.