On The Streets Of Lagos

 Iya Oniboli is at it again, talking at the top of her voice alone. Someday, her listeners will go deaf. Since the fateful day Ajepe rescued me from the hands the under bridge lot, my Mother’s tongue never gave his name Peace.

 Ajepe this one, Ajepe savior; maybe Ajepe took away the sins of Lagos *eyes rolling*

Suddenly Baba Aladura’s prophesy fizzled into thin air. And Ajepe’s exploit made the headline in her news. Ajepe only fancied me as I did him hence the help, nothing more and nothing less.
 Trust my mother to keep up with the drama. I guess I would too if I had just one kid. Events like this remind me of how precious I must be to her, and I for sure get to see that uncommon smile gracing her lips.

I don’t believe my mother deserved the title “Iya” yet but how then will her merchandise be traced directly back to her. Somehow, that title ages her but her beauty never grows old. The skin under her usual skin-tight and free top was beautiful to behold. Her face although naturally the darkest part of her body; housed sparkly eyes and well cut out nose. Except for the creasing lines of the familiar frown always gracing her brows, My Mother was one pretty woman. Unlike dozens of women moving across our street daily, their skins unbalanced in tone like my Mother’s Boli. They are surely confused; I mean who has about three skin tones on one body.

Tsk tsk.

So, in the long run, my friendship with Ajepe regained its fire, and it was sweeter than before. This time, he was getting occasional free Boli and fried meat stew. And his ten naira was still coming in except, on days when free Boli sufficed. Other Bus Conductors knew that I was Ajepe’s boi and that crazy always shouting woman’s son. They knew better, so they did better.