ONCE UPON A LAGOS CORPER

                                                                          I
When the crow of the hen carries into your ear, you will jump from your bed with a start, hoping against hope that you haven't overslept as the panic starts to shoot through your body, your eyes will make a valiant attempt in its bid to adjust to the dark. You are looking for your phone.

There is no transient recollection of how you slept off last night, your panic now starts to give in to despair, thankfully you will see your phone on the floor, lying gloriously on top of some notes you were taking, you will hit the power button and the time stares back at your sleepy eyes in lucid bold fonts declaring that it is just 4:50 a.m.

Your wristwatch is just a few feet away on the side-drawer so you will reach out and check the time -- because this is Nigeria and you cannot be too sure -- your watch will tell you it is 5:20 a.m but you usually set your wristwatch 30 minutes faster so you know that your phone was correct and the hen was a false start.

You will quietly recline and try to catch a little more sleep but the sleep will not come, you'll only keep rolling from side to side until it is 6 a.m.

Another hen will crow just as you start mentally steeling yourself to bath with the cold harmattan water and now you will start cursing that unfortunate hen that woke you early.


                                                                            II
On your way to work, your immediate superior will hit you up with a hasty "hi, good morning," but you will know, in that instinctive way that we always know that nothing is good about the morning. You will think about ignoring the message, wanting to wait till you get to work before you deal with all the baggage that comes with the job.

Just as you want to switch off your data, another message will come in from your superior, "the boss wants to see you when you get in," you know the boss doesn't normally ask for you so it must be bad, really bad.

But you will hastily reply "hope no problem" "is everything alright," your superior will then reply "it's the file from yesterday, you didn't treat it before you left."

You will feel your heart deflate, your muscles will tense and you will wonder how you forgot about the file, then you will feel a sudden illness. Only now will you switch your data off.



                                                                            III
The clock that is usually at that famous roundabout indicates that it is 8:54 a.m, your office is at least 13 minutes away if the car will hurry.

It is Friday, your boss will probably be in early today and you must get in earlier than him, if you are late, he would just assume that you are always late and what not.

That's when you see the cars line up in an ordered unbroken line that gets to your shuttle.

It is the traffic light and you are on the red side, two minutes pass and you are still there, it is 8:57 now and your shoulders slump as you make yourself used to the unappetizing reality that you would be late despite leaving home at 7 a.m.

When you belatedly get to your bus stop at 5 minutes after 9, you fly out of the shuttle and hastily jump the road without a care in the world, a car will almost hit you but eh, this is Lagos.

As you reach the gate of your office, you remember that you forgot your 400 Naira balance with the driver, you growl, you grovel, no lunch for you today. Then a curse or two for the driver.


                                                                            IV
You feel hot, a trickle of sweat runs underneath your chin but you are in an air-conditioned office.

You can hear your boss shout at you, scream even, but your mind is in a wrap.

So you just sit there, quietly, unmoving, internalizing it all.

30 minutes later, you will hear "just get out of my office."

When you close your boss' door, that's when you will breathe again.

                                         
                                                                           V
It is 7:15 p.m, you are in a Danfo, sandwiched between two rather large women who keep asking you to adjust, you are spent, the day has been brutal, every part of your body aches, your brain is turnioniown.

Your lover is texting you, telling you that they don't get you any longer, that you have changed, that you no longer send mushy texts or random voice notes, that the video calls have ceased and you always seem distracted.

You first try to argue, to prove that you are still present, that you still love them but you look at yourself and know that you have changed, in the little ways that are barely perceptible. You are tired, physically and mentally.

A fog blankets your mind most of the time and you can feel it descending again, so you say "Okay," you know that is not the appropriate answer but it is the only thing that comes to your mind, your lover says "Okay.." but you know nothing is okay, you feel it in your bones but it keeps slipping away from you.


                                                                                                                                                            VI
Just as you want to sleep, your phone begins to vibrate, you glance at your wristwatch, 9:45 p.m, you know you shouldn't even bother to check, that it can't be any good, but you check and it is your mother calling you from Oshogbo.

She tells you that ASUU has called off the latest instalment of their strike and your sister needs to go back to school but there isn't enough money to get the barest things she needs, you know your mum would not call you unless it is really important, so you mentally add 5k to your budget at the end of the month, you wonder how you'll get to work with the rest of what you would have left but you tell your mum not to worry, "God will provide, E ba mi ki daddy," you will add.

                                                                          VII
Other nights, the sleep comes easily, taking you when you least expect but not this night, you are troubled, you are not doing what you want, you feel stuck, you are most definitely broke, you have bills to sort, all your thoughts are muddled up and untidy as they crisscross your head.

That's when your phone will vibrate, breaking your line of thought, for a second time you tell yourself not to check it, but you do, thankfully it is a credit alert from GT Bank, 20 thousand Naira from your place of primary assignment, you send your mum the 5k you promised and secretly wonder if she knew to call you on this night.

Then you begin to transfer your debts to various creditors and when this excruciating exercise is done, you are only left with 4k for the month plus whenever Nysc chooses to pay allawee.

You look at your half-sack of Garri in the corner of your room where the dim blue bulb gives it the strange appearance of a punching bag and come to the not-so-scary acknowledgement that it will be your companion for a while yet.

You will go to bed pondering the merits of bifurcating the remaining 4k you have for monthly tithe. Now your suffering continues.