FLASH FICTION
WAHALA, WAHALA
A series of unfortunate events.
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It’s Mental Health Awareness Week from 13–19 May, it happens every year and is a time for people to think about mental health.
Abike wouldn’t have bothered on a typical day Afterall, she, like everyone for whom public transport was the only means of conveyance in Lagos, knew the things that came with it- the odours, mouth, body. Putrid farts.
The unexpected fluids from sources unknown. Fluids which could be anything- saliva, urine, sweat. Even semen.
The interferences- unsolicited opinions, conversation from a potential love interest, a call to repentance from the loud-mouthed evangelists, even mini sales pitches.
But today, it was the least of them that ignited the barrels of gunpowder that had already been exposed in her head since she tapped on her Instagram icon.
It was a little graze, nothing too significant. But, it reminded her of the sparkling sea, the offending in Fendi caption, the red balloons vogueing over the Range Rover, and the response to her comment from her childhood friend — “ore mi your time will come.”
But when? she asked internally, and because she had not received an answer, she carried the questions along with her.
“Oga, are you blind?” She screamed. Those were the first words she said to anyone that morning.
Akpan hated that his friends’ words were valid. He shouldn’t have left the game, although their reason was selfish — he was no longer available to pay for their weekend drinks now that he was married. But after the argument, which broke out that morning as they were settling another, he realized that maybe marriage wasn’t for him. This thought fogged his mind as he ran towards the Obalende-CMS danfo that morning.
Like a prey being pursued by a predator, he wanted to get as far away from his wife and the marriage even if possible.
He had just made it on board when the yell and hands slammed into him.
Akpan has never lifted his finger on a woman, thanks to his single mother who had taught him that violence is for weak men, but he was a man still, and he was one an edge. Glaring at the girl with the bohemian wig like his wife’s, he struck her with his words.
“Ogun wan kill your papa.”
Aduku had been fingering his rosary and mixing his hail marys with the herbalist incantations. As a simple man, his request were simple- getting fuel at a fuel station with a good pump, hoping to avoid Lastma and the little traffic that would prevent him from going between Obalende and Ajah twice. If the virgin Mary or any of the gods of his fathers answered his prayer, he knew that his children would be back in school that week; he would also pay his benefactor, who he gives returns daily to honour his part of the hire-purchase deal. If Mary or the gods were in a good mood, he could also afford medicine for his hypertension. Simple requests.
So, when the heated exchange from the rear floated to him, he turned to intervene.
He had only looked back when he felt his danfo move. By the time he returned his foot to the brake. He felt the gasps from the passengers and the sickening crunch of metal and plastic vibrate in his chest.
“Abasi”, he gasped.
Amunike’s palms was tightened around his phone.
All his life, he had been told that real men do not cry, and so he couldn’t remember the last time tears stained his cheeks- not even when his dear mother died.
Everything around Amunike reminded him that he was an Odogwu and that the only thing he was allowed to make rain was money, not tears. But he had a rethink that morning- The government demolished his estate, and port authorities demanded extra demurrage on his goods at the port- all in a week after a fire outbreak at one of his furniture outlets. He couldn’t cry, but he felt like a balloon stretched taut.
And then his cap flew off his head as his Mercedes was jolted forward. He waved his driver’s words away. He signalled his Mopol as he stepped out and made for the wide-eyed Danfo driver.
Some have food but cannot eat, some can eat but have no food. On that stretch of road buzzing with the din of an overpopulated and overstimulated city.
Most of the people who watched the Mopol and the Amunike descend on the danfo driver belonged to the latter class of have-nots.
For a while, they watched casually until the pleas were cut short by Aduku’s lips as his body fell fatally to the tarred floor with a dull thud.
As though remembering their hunger or realizing their shared humanity, the crowd of disparate individuals melted into one. Sticks and jagged bottles appeared in their hands, and venom etched itself in the lines of their heads while colouring their eyes as they made for the policeman and his master.
Two hours later, the entire state is a theatre of vandalized vehicles, burning buildings and looted stores.
Aremu, the state governor, had hoped that he would be able to attend the spa session after the lengthy meeting with the tribal chiefs all day. It was barely two years into his tenure, and he had wished many days that he had stayed back in Texas, riding his Tesla, flying to watch the superbowl and investing in crypto. But duty had called, and he had answered. But no one had told him that he would spend his days listening to community heads who stand of sweat and something sinister. At the same time, he tried to explain to them without stating the apparent- sixty-five per cent of the state allocation was being consumed by his godfather, their party chieftain. There was also the opposition party, which had daily revelations of these sordid details.
So, when the news of the melee filtered from the commissioner of police. He leaned against the stucco wall and spat.
“Shoot anyone on sight… every goddam person.
Glossary
Abasi — God
Wahala — Nigerian speak for trouble
Ogun wan kill your papa- Nigerian speak for the god of Iron punishes your father
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