The sun is shining a brilliant yellow, the kind that can fry one as dry as garri Ijebu. The heat these days has been unbearable; even bathing thrice daily doesn’t help; before you know it, you’re already sweating like a thawing bottle of coke. I groan as I trudge the untarred market road; Nigeria and suffering are like Siamese twins; they can hardly do without each other or more like the atoms of an element, utterly inseparable. I chuckle drily; even the sun seems to have connived with the current imbroglio in Nigeria, inflicting its scorching intensity on the already depressed Nigerians. How do I survive in this crumbling economy is the question latched on all lips.

Finally, I arrived at my destination. I find an empty seat in the SIM registration shop and sit on it languidly watching as the market bustles with life shortly after making my intentions known to the shop attendant, but the incessant and disturbing speakers selling agbo that can cure all diseases, including HIV, would not stop screaming, like noisy children throwing tantrums. A Fuji song is playing, too, creating chaos with the sounds of horns, bike men calling on customers, and humans chattering. “O ti ya were ni?” I distinctly hear a man say, and my attention gets drawn to him; he has the keys of a bike man dangling between his fingers. There are five sitting across the shop where I am and they all look interesting having some things in common, faces chiseled with scars, meth-stained teeth black with decay, unkempt beards and hair, pierced ears and noses with neatly wrapped cigarettes hanging in their lips or between the index and middle fingers, and a stance of notoriety.

They remind me of Eugene, the guy on my street whose insistence on dating me is beginning to arouse a feeling of rage in me even though he’s well-educated and financially stable but trapped in the ditch called misplaced priority. He always throws parties in his spacious compound every other night, buys the latest cars in vogue, and spends money lavishly on expensive wine, alcohol, and prostitutes.

“Ba n gbowo mi jo,” the man talking bellowed. He was standing now, holding the collar of the bike man. The other four rallied around the one accosting the bike rider. It seemed he was yet to pay the customary daily bike rider fee. The bike rider who was proving stubborn earlier, removed a hundred naira note, his hands steepled in a plea, placating the men. “Ko shi lọ jo,” the men sent him away with a knock on his head. In a jiffy, the bike man revved his bike and sped away. They were agberos. My gaze is fixated on one of the men who could easily pass for a madman. He has no shoes on, and the legs and hem of his trousers are dusty. His head is half covered with dreads and on his shirt is imprinted the words ‘Life Is Hard.’

Life truly is hard! I proceed, my eyes grow moist, and the painful memory of my late mother’s death fills my heart like a balloon being inflated. It felt like I was going to burst with anger and sadness. She had taken the coward’s way out and committed suicide after losing my two elder siblings in one day, leaving me and my dad to bear the pain alone.

People started shouting, jolting me out of my anguish. The seemingly madman made a quick dash for a bottle and broke it, aiming it at one of his fellow agberos. Quickly, the broken bottle was retrieved from his hands. “Lo bere mi ní Yaba apa osi, mọ san lori gán o,” he boasted beating his chest.
“Empty barrel lo ma n pariwo,” the offender sang, his voice laced with mockery. The agbero holding the broken bottle earlier was led away like a goat being taken away to be slaughtered, twisting and turning here and there and spewing threats. I sighed feeling safe again. Lagos is a place of great diversity. It is a home to people from different walks of life, including people of wealthy descent and not-so-wealthy descent. The insane and sane, the educated and illiterate, but despite this enormous gap, something binds the inhabitants together – the need to survive in Nigeria’s number one thriving economy. Paradoxically, not everyone will make it here. But I vehemently hope that wouldn’t be my case.

“Gave me your NIN, so I can check if it is validating,” the shop attendant says to me with a soft voice. She was too composed after the vicious charade that just happened and the grammatical blunder she just strung together. I shrug; she must be used to scenes like this, I thought, ignoring her linguistic mishap. I shake my head and bring out my NIN, handing it over to her. Before I castigate her, wasn’t I also becoming used to hardship? When life keeps bashing you, you’d be left with no choice but to always expect the worst. But I didn’t want to be like that, and it hurt. Every time I try again, hope burgeons in my heart, and it’s dashed; the pain is more searing, more unbearable. Isn’t it better to not try? To just keep still like stagnant stale water?

“It’s validating,” she said and returned my NIN to me. She picks up the sim registration machine and starts inputting the necessary details to access the machine. My GLO SIM has been blocked because I haven’t connected my national identity number to it. Nigeria and Wahala. GLO network has been singing in my ears the need to do this, and as a typical Nigerian, I did nothing about it until I was barred from browsing. If I remember correctly, I have done this before, and yet again, I’m being asked to repeat the process. I wonder why this seems to be the predominant quandary to be tackled. As if it will diminish the ever-rising cost of things, provide the social amenities and infrastructures that would improve the standard of living, or even mitigate the fear of insecurity. Can you imagine the attendant even had to utilize her fingerprints to register my sim after she had tried using mine for over an hour, and it wasn’t connecting?

“Nigeria is wrecked,” I hiss, frustration etched on my face.
“What you said?” the shop attendant asks me, her voice laden with concern.
“Nothing,” I reply to her. I quickly ask God for forgiveness, remembering my pastor’s sermon just yesterday. Life and death are in the power of the tongue and those that love it will eat the fruit thereof.
“Nigeria is blessed,” I mumble.
“Nigeria was blessed,” The shop attendant smiled. I smiled back, so she heard. I take a good surreptitious look at her. She also looks interesting but different from the five men who were once discussing across the shop. She is wearing a cheap, dark green short gown made from polyester with its wool starting to fray despite still looking new, revealing very dark legs as attractive as freshly baked bread. She has auburn crochet hair on her head and her fingers and nails are painted red. My forehead folds into a confusing frown, it’s so glaring that her spoken English is flawed. I fear I might burst into laughter at any moment. But she just heard me speak the correct words why change it? Maybe she thinks she’s correct and I’m wrong. I quickly stifled my brewing laughter threatening to spill like a fountain.

I am intrigued by the prospect of how she might transcend her current circumstances. It seems unlikely that she is well-educated (though I could be mistaken). In this day and age, it is difficult to imagine a highly educated woman making a living by registering SIM cards for people in a shop that also serves as a bakery. I find it hard to believe that the economy is in dire straits. Perhaps my perspective is narrow. One would think that she could pursue a career in education, office work, or entrepreneurship (such as baking or fashion design), rather than being limited to SIM card registration. I believe she takes pride in maintaining the cleanliness of her shop. She selects a broom to sweep away the dust and debris that the wind has carried into her shop, covering the plastered floor. However, her efforts seem to be in vain. To begin with, her shop is quite cluttered. I observe a multitude of items, ranging from dusty crates of empty bottles to an oven that appears to be aged, casually resting on a drawer alongside nylons and miscellaneous items. In one corner, numerous buckets and bowls are haphazardly scattered. In addition, a fully operational portable fridge is located within her shop, brimming with beverages and bags of pure water. Adjacent to the fridge is a lengthy iron chair where customers can sit, while across from these items stands an MTN booth equipped with two NIN machines. Just outside the shop, there is an attached shed that provides additional seating, where I am currently seated.

I feel a deep connection with this woman, one that surpasses age, skin color, or education level. How does she manage to operate under such circumstances? My heart begins to race. I take a deep breath, counting to three before exhaling. Her life mirrors mine, consumed by a zeal to succeed, she’d rather sell SIM cards than steal. Doesn’t this speak about me too? Rather than commit suicide and plunge my father deeper into the abyss of despair, I choose to live. I feel pride swell in the pit of my stomach. She is just as resilient as I am. Not one to throw in the towel, when the going gets tough. Only God knows how much she makes in a day, yet she keeps showing up just like I do, too, having lost all my family members except my dad. I feel a connection with this lady. A subtle connection that transcends age, skin colour, or education. How can she make it in such a condition? This familiar thought plagues me too. How can I make it?

I doubt if this lady can become comfortably rich with the type of job she does. I don’t think she can. Quickly, I browse the market, and I can highlight about seven SIM registration shops in that same market. With a barely over five thousand population, how is she able to make ends meet? But I cogitate, who am I to assess the whole worth of her past, present, and future and conclude that she can’t make it big doing what she does? Notwithstanding her lack of education, she may perhaps land a rich man, supposing she’s still unmarried. She could possibly cross paths with a benefactor, travel abroad, or even pick up a course in school. God still works in mysterious ways, right? I don’t think I fear not becoming great but the question that sits heavily in my heart each day is, how can I make it too?

Today, it is 40 years since my father left Okemesi Ekiti for Lagos with a shirt, a pair of trousers, and bare feet. Without his parent’s consent and knowing no one in Lagos, his heart burned passionately like an inferno to make it in Lagos and bring his family out of penury. And he did. It’s not funny that I know the precise date, not after how often I heard how he made it in the hustle and bustle of Lagos, enduring bouts of hunger, discouragements, and failures. Against all odds, my father started his business at the age of 23, and I vowed to myself to surpass him. Not because I aim to compete with his success but because his life’s story set the bar so high and challenged me to do better. Now, I’m almost 28 and still don’t know what to do with my life. Where have I gotten it wrong? As a graduate of Microbiology with a weak 2.1 certificate that I can barely defend, and absolutely no job, I feel stuck because soon after my NYSC program, I fell ill and was constantly in and out of the hospital. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia paranoid. I had to resort to working for my dad in his school business. I was more or less a burden because I was on his payroll but wasn’t doing my job dutifully. Though, he never complained. There were days when I wouldn’t go to class to teach due to the nagging weakness characterized by my illness.

Slowly, four years have gone by, and I don’t even know where to start. Thankfully, I feel healthier now. So, I spend my time on LinkedIn searching for job opportunities but most of them are seeking employees with experiences I don’t have. The words, “We are sorry, we can’t work with you at this time,” are what I keep hearing from the companies I apply to. Maybe I should say yes to Eugene. He could easily start up a supermarket for me considering that I have always had the flare for business. But everyone suspects he is a Yahoo boy because he drives the latest cars in town even though he’s from a humble background and has no solid job he’s known for. The last girlfriend he had died mysteriously; her dead body was found in a lagoon. Moreover, Yahoo boys are dangerous. I can’t risk my dear life.

The attendant returns my NIN and I leave lost in thought. Even though I still don’t know the way forward, I know that this season, too, will pass just like dusk giving way to dawn. Nothing lasts forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Namnso Ukpanah on Unsplash