‘Ye!’
Kolade groaned at the sudden pain that shot through his toe to his calf. He’d kicked a stone on his path too hard. Paying no mind to the car honks and angry drivers who yelled expletives at each other in the gridlock beside him, he stopped mid-walk on the roadside, bent over to feel the toe through his worn-out leathered shoe, and rubbed it softly to ease his pain.
His dusty shoes told the tale of a weary job seeker on the sweltering streets of Lagos. His suit, crisp and sharp when he’d stepped out of the house earlier in the day, now drooped around him, damp from his sweat. He was exhausted.
The 27-year old first-class graduate of Economics had left Abeokuta in search of greener pastures and a better life. But from the first day of his arrival, the city of Lagos had treated him like a criminal sentenced to a lifetime of hard labour. He’d done everything the influencers on LinkedIn said to do – gathered the right certifications, written the perfect Resume, and even volunteered in a couple of organizations that had ripped him off in ways that he hated to recount. Still, the god of jobs was yet to look his way.
On the brighter side, today wasn’t a total waste. He’d attended an interview at one of the big-four consultancy companies in Nigeria. It didn’t go bad, although he couldn’t say if it was fantastic either, but it was way better than any interview he’d attended in recent times. Getting interviews had never been his problem, but it seemed like once he took a seat in an interview room, his smarts gave way to shaking and trembling. His thoughts became puzzle pieces that never quite fit into words the right way.
He straightened up to continue walking, holding a brown envelope that held his CV in one hand, and his phone in the other. He sighted a shop ahead, the beacon of hope on his long treks. Since the government’s ban on Okada and Keke, transportation had become one of his new headaches. He hastened his walk to the shop and heaved a sigh of thanks that despite the crowd, there was an empty bench he could sit on.
‘Madam Iso!’, he yelled as he sat, ‘abeg give me pure water, the wan wey cold well well.’ He shouted a second time when she didn’t respond. Someone passed him a sachet of water.
‘Thank you.’ He tore the tip of the sachet with his teeth, squeezed firmly with his hand and took large gulps, till it was squashed against his palm. He sighed heavily, his body relaxing from the soothing coolness against his parched throat. Still resting, Kolade mindlessly watched passing pedestrians for few more minutes before he would continue his trek to the bus stop.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, so he reached for it. It was a WhatsApp message from his younger sister Ire.
‘Good afternoon Egbon,’ it read. ‘Mummy is asking of you; she says she wants to talk to you. Please call her, we don’t have airtime to call you.’
‘I’ll call you when I get home,’ he typed quickly.
Looking up, a strange movement caught his eye. A man walked briskly, his eyes darting about like a hawk looking for a prey. He looked unusual in his one side dreaded hair, faded blue polo, a pair of rough crazy jeans and a pair of slippers. But despite his look, it was his edginess that had caught Kolade’s eye. A woman walked past him, and the guy slowed down, sized her up, then fixed his eyes on the black handbag that she held by her side. After a few moments he quickened his pace again until he caught up to her.
Then it happened.
He hit her shoulders forcefully with his, making her bend suddenly. She turned in anger, but the man continued walking like nothing had happened. But something had happened. Kolade had never seen such sleight of hand before, but the guy had slipped his hand into her bag in perfect beat, without batting an eyelid, and had succeeded in picking something.
Kolade felt a burst of energy rush through him, so he shot to his feet. Without a thought, he ran at the guy, and rushed into him from behind. He slammed into him with his side, sending his elbow straight into his back, grunting with satisfaction when the guy stumbled.
But his victory was short lived. The guy straightened in a beat, and sent a punch flying into Kolade’s face. Dazed, Kolade staggered backwards, then the guy took off running.
‘Yeah, run coward,’ he stuttered, trying to hold on to the bravado which was slipping away. He turned back to head back to the shop, then saw a phone on the ground beside his feet. Energy flooded him again, this time from elation. His theatrics hadn’t been for nothing. He’d recovered the lady’s phone.
He picked the phone from the ground and attempted to straighten up his shirt and tie.
‘Ole, Ole!!,’ a female cry rent the air,’ that man stole my phone. He’s a thief!’
Kolade stood still, staring with his hands stretched towards the woman pointing at him and screaming. On one palm lay her phone. His feet refused to move.
Ole! She screamed louder, and like a choreographed scene from a mystery movie, his eyes registered people closing in on him, yet nothing in his body responded.
His short life flashed before his eyes, then news clippings of Lagos jungle justice, burning tires, and lastly the sight of his ill frail mother lying on her bed in Osogbo. Finally, his legs moved.
Next Episode: Wednesday 8th April.
Simi Joel 