The Human Condition: What is Yours, Is Yours
The bus is a body of noise. You hear a creak as you climb in. Like metal at its breaking point. You sit beside a fair lady. No change oh. The bus conductor. As usual. His voice is rough on the edges. Feels like an aluminum roofing sheet. It is the same voice texture whenever you hear Fuji music at Mushin and Agege. The party centers of Lagos. Change no dey ohh. This time, spittle flies out. Touches your skin. You quickly wipe it away with your palm. You are sweaty. It is just 8:28am. Lagos is hot these days. Spittle and sweat mix on your skin. You hold back the urge to be angry and bring out your earpiece. You recently bought it. The bus gets in motion. Another orchestra of noise. You quickly open your music player. The human condition by Jon. Perfect album to start the day.
Palmgrove, Ikorodu road. 8:36am. Jon is all you are hearing. Not the entire album. Just “all time low” on repeat. Air blows into the bus, on your face, and you are lost in the electronic repetition of Jon’s voice blasting through your ears. Last night, you were under the yellow lights at Mobolaji Anthony way. And the red on her lips was blunt. You did not want to see her. There were already too many memories haunting you. You did not want to add yellow street lights and blunt red lips to the list of things you need to forget. But she insisted and now you remember last night. Like it was a dream.
There is traffic at Maryland junction. You are back to the bus. You pause the music. The rush of noise comes back. Lagos is a possessed body. Too many voices in her head. In your head, there is a rush of emotions you want to ignore. Your voice saying many things at the same time. Like how you want her to be more. Like how you know she is another’s lover yet you want to be hers. You plug the earpiece back. You don’t need to hear yourself. You change the music. Particula by Major Lazer. A costly mistake. The first time you met her was at a club on the island and the Dj was scratching this beat. You look out through the window. The bus is on Mobolaji Anthony way now.
Emotions are intense like tropical storms. You are at the edge of every feeling; you are cold and dark and feeling drenched with brine, whether you cried or not. Your skin feels everything and you know when it is a drop of sweat or tear or spittle. Your ears hear everything: The sound of an old engine, the rusty conductor’s voice calling your bus stop and your Whatsapp notification tune. You look at your phone screen. Hey. Good morning. It is her face and name staring back at you. Last night, you agreed to be just friends. This morning, you can’t reply her message.
