❦
4:00 AM
Hey! Don’t sleep, no sleep
Wake up
Collect your money (Collect your money)
Wake up
Collect your money (Collect your money) – GBERA!
Kizz Daniel is slowly becoming a garden of thorns in my flesh, twisting and turning, taunting and torturing. I hired him because, at the time, it seemed he was made for the job. I was supposed to hear, “Hey, don’t sleep, no sleep. Wake up. Collect your money,” and smile to myself from sleep, roll a little in bed, and get up with a gentle reminder of my sick sense of humour.
But Daniel was too big to pay attention on the call where I explained this simple job description, because the only thing I hear him reminding me every morning is how miserable my life is and how if I don’t get up, I won’t be getting any money. This might sound a bit crazy; perhaps I’ve finally lost my mind, but hear me out. These days, I feel like I hear malicious intent in his voice when he wakes me in the morning; that voice these days paints the picture of a psychopath smearing hot amala on the back of his victim. It might all be in my head, but I think this man is conscious of his wickedness. In fact, I believe he’s enjoying it.
Dear Anidugbe Daniel, I hereby dismiss you from your 4:00 AM duties. Thank you. God bless. Take the time off to find yourself a new sound. Word on the street is your sound is starting to turn white from excessive rinsing.
Signed – Management
Swipe right to cancel.
4:10 AM
Hey! Don’t sleep, no sleep
Wake up
Collect your money (Collect your money)
Wake up!!
God, is this hell?
Is this how you have chosen to punish me for not reminding the bus conductor to collect his money yesterday at Ojuelegba? Who have I offended that has chosen to repurpose “Buga” into an instrument of inhuman torment? Who? It’s like Iya Funke’s prayers are not working anymore because these weapons fashioned against me are prospering more than Joseph did in the land of Egypt.
I swear, I’m going to vandalise this bloody phone if it doesn’t keep quiet now. Oh shit. 20%. Don’t tell me I forgot to plug my phone before I slept. God, Funke, you’re useless. Thank God there’s still light. Why should I have to stand up to have my bath and prepare for work when this fan is blowing like this? Only God knows the next time I’m going to wake up to meet light again. Make I collect small fan for body, abeg.
Swipe right to cancel.
4:20 AM
Hey! Don’t sleep, no sleep
Wake up
Collect your money (Collect your money)
She screams into her pillow, biting into it murderously.
She assaults her mattress, wincing and rolling in bed,
in performative distress.
She sits up, eyes the colour of fury.
This urge to destroy things.
This rabid rage. I need to assault someone, something. I need blood. Somebody needs to pay for these hate crimes being committed against my sanity. And they need to pay in tears and in blood. Ahhhh! Anidugbe, mek I no jam you for street o!
5 minutes later.
If I sacrifice the 40 minutes for working out today and make up for it tomorrow, throw in 10 minutes for cleaning my room, do that when I get back at night, throw in 10 minutes meant for prayer and quiet time as garnishing, I’m pretty sure I can carve out enough time to get the beauty sleep I deserve.
If I flake on these alarms again today, it would be the fourth time this week. Am I not building the wrong set of habits like this? I guess the correct construction process will have to begin again tomorrow. The gods of construction have tested me today, and I have failed like the failure I am. I already missed the first two alarms; there’s no point in trying anymore. It’s better I just clear the rest.
We’ll go again tomorrow.
Cancel all remaining alarms.
6:07 AM
She opens her eyes suddenly,
like a reanimated Nollywood evil spirit.
She pulls back her curtain,
gazing into the light blue visual yawns and stretches
of a young day she had hoped would never wake.
PANIC.
She picks up her phone:
God, please, don’t let it be 6. God, please, don’t it be 6. Oh shit. Oh shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m done for. And why is my phone on 17% forchristsake? I thought I plugged it. God, I can’t be late for work again. Funke, you are so fucking useless.
7:00 AM
She swirls and twirls in front of her mirror:
Funke, you are the absolute bomb; you are just bad. Kilode! Wow. To think I thought yesterday’s preparation speed was unreal. And to still find a way to look like a three-course breakfast meal with all that rushing? Unreal, a babe and more for real. Those stupid alarms were just stressing my life for nothing. Maybe I need to reset that alarm to wake me up by 6 because how did I wake up so late and still end up just five minutes behind schedule?
Ceteris paribus, if I get okada to Masha immediately I step outside, I’m sure I can regain the lost 5 minutes and be back on schedule. Even if that means I have to leave without eating again this morning. A small price to pay: I missed my workout this morning. It’s only fair that I miss breakfast to balance it out. In fact, I should probably just remove breakfast from my schedule completely. Hopefully, this stupid stomach will finally go down. Speaking of stomach, why is this stupid gown making my belly look big? I should probably change it; I don’t like how it’s hugging my body. It even kind of looks like the one I was wearing the day that bastard was using his feet to feel me up inside danfo. That fucking bastard. I should stop buying gowns like this.
7:22 AM
Where did I put this shop key nau?
Why is this stupid key not in my bag, nitori Ọlọrun? Did I remove it yesterday when I came back? But why would I remove it? It’s not in my bag; it’s not on my fridge; it’s not in the passage—that’s basically everywhere I could have possibly put it. Oh shit, abi I didn’t remove it from the door when I locked the shop yesterday? Temi bámi. God, why is everything just happening to me this morning?
I locked the shop yesterday now, abi?
God, 7:22, and I am still in this house looking for the shop key.
Funke, right now is not the time for tears—Funke right now is not the—
Storm ensues:
Why am I such a fucking stupid fuck up, why am I crying because I can’t find an ordinary key? I fucking hate myself, I hate this house, I hate this stupid jeans skirt, I hate Aunty Zainab, I hate this fucking job, I hate this stupid bag.
She throws her bag across the room,
a bunch of keys and an inhaler fall out.
8:03 AM
She turns back to face the camera, a camera,
a non-existent camera,
as she steps into a danfo at Ojuelegba:
For my next trick, I will attempt to complete a 1 hour 20 minutes trip to my shop in just 27 minutes. It’s a race against time, and I’m not going to lose, I never lose.
On the contrary,
she, in fact, loses every day.
Whatever Dominic Torreto does on screen in that endless saga of family ties is first test run here on these streets by danfo drivers. The things I witness them do on a daily basis are things F1 drivers spend their entire careers trying to achieve. Once again, my job rests on the steering wheel of a danfo that should have been decommissioned and carried off the roads many years ago, and a driver who is probably tipsy on dry gin at 7 in the morning. But I swear, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
8:20 AM
She rests her head on her arm,
which is being bitten into
by the sharp rusted metal edge
of the window she is resting on:
When a new day is born in Lagos, the gods toss a coin in the air. Lagosians hold their breaths to see how it will land. It’s either mild traffic or gut-wrenching traffic that seduces you to continue your journey like the Israelites.
Which is it today?
I left Ojuelegba over 20 minutes ago, and we’ve barely moved more than 5 kilometres. What’s your guess? Mild traffic? Wrong. Gut-wrenching traffic? Wrong. Then why am I still stuck at Obanikoro, you ask?
This old man, we’ll call him Headmaster, has refused to pay the bus conductor, we’ll call him Sule, the 400 naira bus fare he’s asking for, because “Ojuelegba to Computer Village is 300 naira, this fraud, I won’t let you cheat me! I know my right.”
Upon this rather unassuming small but mighty rock of an issue, a cathedral of drama has been built, and all of us inside this danfo have been compelled to worship in it.
Ká má párọ ká má jale, Headmaster is right. These guys are just trying to make quick bucks off us. However, I repeat, however, there’s a time and place for these things, and that time and place is not here, not now, not the day I’m late for work. Whilst I’m aware that there’s never actually a time or place to stand up to exploitation, and if no one fights back, then the calm, innocent-looking exception will overthrow the government and enforce itself as the rule—quite frankly, I don’t give a damn, I’m too fucking late to care.
Oya o, Headmaster, we’ll pay your bus fare. Don’t worry about it. Headmaster refused, “This is why corruption fosters in this country, because no one is willing to stand up against oppression and corruption.” Oppression and corruption? 100 naira, One Awolowo note. Oppression and corruption on top one Awolowo note! God, abeg.
This man reminds me of a woman at Ojuelegba, a few weeks ago, who rained a thunderstorm of drama on the entire bus stop because one agbero tapped a young lady’s backside. The babe herself was actually willing to let it slide to avoid any drama. But not this woman. She was grabbing and tearing his shirt, hurling insults at him, screaming at the top of her voice, and trying to fight him. The other bus conductors and drivers just stood laughing, jesting and making jokes. You see, this was all a joke to them. A theatrical performance. Stand-up Nigeria produced by Mummy Tolani.
The entire affair was pointless, if you ask me. And at some point, I even started getting scared for her safety because only God knows what would happen if the jokes grew flesh and bone and became physical. I sat and watched everyone else just walk past her, shaking their heads, some even smiling, even though they all saw what had happened. Men, women, students. I guess they too, like me, were all late for school and work that day.
I sat watching her fight. She wasn’t just fighting for that girl, but for the many other girls who get harassed there all the time, and me. Or maybe she was just crazy, looking for an outlet. All I could do was sit, taking it all in, doing nothing; just like I did the day I was sexually harassed in a danfo. I sat there shaking my head in pity, fury and disappointment. She should have known better. There’s very little to gain in protesting and fighting for anything around here, and everything to be lost.
I rested my back, faced my front and played “Nina Cried Power” by Hozier. I said a silent prayer for her safety and, most importantly, for the driver to come quickly and move us away from there because the only feeling worse than being helpless is watching a helpless person helplessly. Plus, I was also late, there’s that.
8:46 AM
She has her earphones on,
“time is of the essence,” Tems sings.
The wind is rushing against her face,
slapping her hair against her cheeks.
She’s wearing a mischievous, restrained smile,
holding back a fountain of laughter from bursting out:
Headmaster won in the end; Sule budged. Justitia did a little dance. For the rest of this journey, the danfo will be silent. I know it. A heavily pregnant silence. A heavily pregnant silence that we all know is destined to lead to a miscarriage, so we’re all going to actively avoid thinking about it. We’re all thinking the exact same thing, but no one is shameless or ballsy enough to voice it out loud, just little side talks and whispers. It’s hilarious. The air is sour with grumbling. Headmaster is smiling, grinning from cheek to cheek; he’d laugh out loud if he didn’t have to respect his age.
Do we all ask for a refund of 100 naira, or what do we do? I can see everyone’s eyes asking. I’m glad. Serves us right. I’m 16 minutes late for work already, and no matter the miracle that happens I will be at least 30 minutes late for the third time this week. I hope today is not the day Aunty Zainab eventually sends me away.❦
Adeyeye Okikijesu is a 400-level student at the University of Lagos, Nigeria. He loves to listen to music and daydream in his spare time. He’s on a quest to breathe life into his dreams with words. When you see this, wish him all the luck you can offer. You never know, it could come in handy someday.
Afapinen 