Lagos is a place of serenity and peaceful living. I mean, judging from this picture you wouldn’t even realize that a “thief” was lynched on this particular street a few days ago.
But that death is not what The Watcher desires you to ponder on today, no… Today’s death is a little bit more personal. You see, it concerns The Watcher himself.
And it is told on the wheels of an SUV conveying the remains of the deceased, while his family wonders why the car is late in coming.
BEAUTIFUL CHAOS
It was another Mournday morning and the view of Lagos traffic was pristine. Yes, the skies were literally weeping and begging for mercy that day. It was a day perfect for ruining moods and searing hearts into happy indifference.
UNILAG had decided to free us from our torment a little. I mean, they gave us a three week break and I think that was a little bit generous of them. Write your exams and come back almost immediately to read more books for more exams that you’ll still fail. Classic.
I couldn’t complain though, life at home was looking appealing. I had plans to dutifully waste my time and spoil myself during this long holiday, and the only thing standing between me and enjoying life was money. Smalls.
So, that Monday, I had plans of organizing a house party once my dad vacated the premises, but God had other ideas. Unfortunately, the rain ended up delaying him for a long while and I pretended to sleep throughout.
Thankfully, the rain finally let up and my dad left the house quickly. Bella Ciao. I turned full Barry Allen and rearranged the sitting room; can’t be caught lacking when my boys show up, can we now?
“Girls, booze, confirm shayo for jobless people on the first working day on the week.”
What could possibly go wrong?
MURPHY’S LAW
Thankfully, none of my friends bear this name.
When I was a little boy, I had a heart surgery done to clear a blocked artery. I would have died otherwise. But Murphy’s Law does not care about little boys and certainly did not care, when I slipped while setting up the DJ stand and hit my head on the floor.
It was like StormBreaker and Mjolnir having a round table discussion at the back of my head.
I blacked out and came to, then blacked out again and came to again enough to hear my heart beat irregularly and wonder what I’d tell God I was doing before I died.
I lay there helpless and finally struggled to find my phone and alert my dad that I was in danger. 30 minutes, 1 hour, 1 hour 30 minutes... No sign of the mandem. Glorious exit?
It took a while before I felt doors slam, hands lift me and a voice of concern whisper silent prayers that I don’t die. Dying in an SUV, there are worse ways to go.
But Murphy wasn’t done with me.
MURPHY’S BROTHER, EDDIE
It’s a family business.
Lagos Traffic is like a Nigerian woman; one day she calls you “big head”, another day she calls you out on Twitter.
I was unfortunate to meet this woman when I was hanging on for dear life, 34 kilometers away from the nearest hospital. And as usual, this woman could not explain why she was present and who invited her.
At least the Air Conditioning in the car was working fine, I mean, my already freezing body could not tell the difference, and the drivers dragging their shirts on the road could not as well.
A CRY IN RAMAH
Jeremiah 31:15
I don’t know if my father cried out when I closed my eyes finally. Maybe he did, and I couldn’t hear it over the cry of bus conductors. But what I do know is that I did not die, no, I was murdered. Murdered by Lagos Traffic.
They say your final thoughts should reflect your life and its events, like a Cinematic Roll. But my life was the life of the girl who slipped and fell in the bathroom, and died in the ambulance that came to take her, in Lagos Traffic.
My life was the life of the boy whose burns worsened before the fire fighters came to put out the fire, because of Lagos Traffic. My life was also the life of the man who lost his 8–7 peanut paying job, because of Lagos Traffic.
Sweating and cursing, pushing and shoving, Lagos Traffic is a beautiful woman.
I died that day in Lagos Traffic in my father’s arms. We all died that day when Lagos Traffic told us that we were abusive, hostile, unyielding and arrogant. My own death was just the first of many.
I died because of Lagos Traffic, but my ghost speaks echoes still.
Echoes of yellow buses and green bikes.
Echoes of small vehicles and large automobiles.
Echoes of a town cloaked with a spreading sickness of bread and Traffic jam.
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