The Whites of Her Eyes Are Bloodshot

Her smile was strained as she smiled at something her friend had said and trust me as a young lady I knew how to smile with my teeth and not my heart. The sun was beating down on her mercilessly and yet she appeared to be comfortable on the surface. Deep down I knew she could not be. She must have used concealer before the foundation that looked as if it was unevenly spread and completed the pore-sealing process with IMAN powder that costs half of my monthly allowance all in a bid to look beautiful. She only reminded me of propped up mannequins in the boutique where I shop once in a blue moon with a too red blusher on her dark skin made light by a too-light foundation and powder. Again as a lady, I knew IMAN would have her exact shade.
What made it discomfiting to sit next to her was the fact that she had attempted to ‘bleach’ her skin to white and did not quite get it right leaving her knuckles, knees and ears dark; her underarms were wet and had formed a patch as if that were the only part of her body the sun touched; she spotted a star-shaped tattoo between the thumb and fore finger of her left hand and another on her waist where the top was made to deliberately part ways from the leggings, had four piercings in each ear; spotted the longest length of fake lashes and artificial nails extremely long and dripping tomato-red lacquer! Yes the whites of her bloodshot from contact lens she must have fitted newly or slept with.
The ever tooting keke (tricycle) then came to whisk us away to our destination and I felt alien in it. it was not because the strange smelling girl had three tech-looking mobile phones or because of her incessant chatter with her friend but because I was reading a book and looked so tame as compared to the girls who looked similar in their dressing that they could pass for twins. One looked like the other except for the slight difference in the tattoo that the second girl did not make public. The tattoo was like a bad paint job as it dripped congealed paint. I felt it was more akin to deliberately scratching a vintage car like a Bentley only to repaint it with poor quality house paint! I am sure not everyone shares my opinion.
Her lace wig which she must have carefully packed to look dishevelled showed traces of hair glue that the stylist must have forgotten to remove and smelled of sweat. I did not understand how she could afford contacts that erased our Nigerian brown to a shade of blue that appeared so false when she could not buy the cheapest anti-perspirant roll-on or deodorant and hairspray. I mean the girl is really cheap. I stuck my head half out of the keke and my face in my book reading as if my life depended on it. By the time the keke finally made it to our destination, I was drained, demoralised and cranky in addition to the headache that was threatening to form behind my eyes. I was in a hurry to alight and cross the road just so that I could be far from them and their chatter.
Did I mention that she had body odour?

The Ant Deserves Some Respect Too!

Even in our ‘flash bulb’ moments, when we are at our most creative and we decide to put things together, the best we have done is create some caricature and label it ‘invention’!  As tiny as it is, no man has ever created an ant! For years, man played God cloning animals but we know how a Xerox machine works: it creates a copy of the original and a copy will always be that- a COPY! It is a beautiful creature that fascinates me much like a tiny firefly or a parrot.

I have been away from home for a while and I took a stroll down my street just this evening. Usually I try to avoid puddles made from dirty women who pour dirty water into the street or little children playing in the street with the excess energy peculiar to them. Sadly today I saw a lot of dead animals in the street and given the chance I would have picked stinky fish innards over that.

I stuck my phone to my ear in a bid to avoid unnecessary chit-chat from nosy neighbours who have been curious about me. I grunted greetings where appropriate. At first, it was some awful smell that assailed my senses and I was scared to respond to the question my caller was asking lest I inhale some of it. it was a healthy sized rat. A few paces away, I encountered a dried out rat which looked almost like jerky except that the grey colour was unmistakeable. I saw chickens in various stages of jubilation when they found a cockroach that was dead but not totally crushed. Rodent still.

And turning the bend into the next street, it hit me full in the face- the injustice of it all and I whimpered into the phone. I almost stepped on the fresh carcass of a cute puppy discarded in the street like the forgotten toy of a spoilt child. At least its eyes were closed and I stared for a full five seconds. And just when I could not choke back my anger at all this, I saw a silly motorbike rider careen down the road at full speed leaning on his horn like a little child denied his toy during his growing up days. I saw a Mother hen by the road side ina flurry of feathers clucking in grief and I could imagine her shaking her feathered fist at the negligent, careless rider who had killed her precious chick. It had taken her twenty-one of careful vigil to bring that chick to birth and it had taken the silly rider one second to snuff out its life! I tell you; even the ant deserves some respect lest it be told to their council of chieftains that humans have no regard for their life!

This City

I usually don’t feel nostalgic about any particular place until it is time to say goodbye. The district is shrouded in darkness and although the blanket is gradually moving to pave way for daybreak, I wish it would remain that way: prolong the feeling a bit. A feeling that is bitter sweet, neither here nor there. I watch as areas that are traffic hotspots flash past; not even boasting of motor bikes and it is a relief that the air is considerably clean at this time of the day. The chickens are just rousing and even the goats are dreaming as I set out on the right foot to a far destination. I heaved a sigh. Would there be another future for me in this slumbering city? Can I learn to survive here? There was no more time to ask questions for no sooner had we arrived the motor park than we set out! It was a time of reality, an awakening. I took it as well as could be expected; of course I had left loved ones behind. Friendships that I was going to nurture, interests I wanted to pursue, experiences I wanted to relive… perhaps an extra five minutes would do, no too small. Five hours, maybe more if possible. This is a lesson in humility and gratitude!