NKEM 22
Joe was a devil may care kind of a man. An ambitious daredevil. He used to smuggle contraband items within the Nigeria-Benin Republic border. Business was booming for him. He decided going abroad would be a big hit for him so he sold all that he could and was air bound to the US. His love for quick money drove him to fraternize with the wrong gang. One day, a deal went bad and a fight broke out. He was alone among two men. He heard a bottle break. The next thing was a sharp pain by the side of his face and the warm liquid sweat that flowed. He collapsed on the floor. He would wake up hours later in the hospital. It turned out his visa had expired and that was reason enough for his deportation.
Everyone had entered back and the bus eased itself back to the main road. As soon as they left the food canteen, the woman inched closer to Gladys and whispered to her.
"You must have said something bad that made him so mad".
"Who?", she queried.
"That man in de canteen".
Gladys rolled her eyes and let out a slow hiss.
"He is none of my problems". Her demeanor told the other woman she doesn't want to be bothered. She had a lot more to think about than a random good-for-nothing man.
The woman got her message. She snorted and moved her body to avoid it touching Gladys. Her face had a permanent frown and her head stuck forward without glancing a inch towards Gladys throughout the remainder of the journey.
Gladys felt sorry for her. If things had been different, he would have chatted effortlessly with her but her present circumstance had shut any form of friendliness and niceties from her.
It was the thick stench of stale urine and gutters congested with foul smell that roused her from sleep. The stench announced they were now in Lagos. The bus stopped under the bridge while the passengers descended.
She took her bag, stretched herself with a yawn before crossing with great effort. The road is littered with disused nylons and papers and of course, potholes of all sizes. Oshodi was always crowded with beggars and pilferers mixing together. You had to be very careful or else the pilfers would help themselves to the little money on you.
The pavements were broken and lined with beggars sitting cross-leg on mats, thick nylon or papers. Most of them are women with children sitting with them or walking about begging. They hold your hand and pester you for handouts. They won't let go until you threaten them. They then run and go to meet other people. The parents remain where they are, rolling their rosary beads and offering prayers to passersby.
The stench made Gladys hurry as fast as she could. She clutched her bag to her chest and crossed to the other side of Oshodi where she would take an Ijora bus after which she would take the one going to Ajegunle.
She arrived a little past six no thanks to the notorious Lagos traffic. As soon as she entered the compound, one announcer was enough to rouse the other children who had been lured into their rooms, glaring at the colour television. Within minutes, the doors to the face-me- and face- you flung open and a crowd of cheering children emerged chanting Aunty Gladys oyoyo, tugging at her bag and holding her hand. The children seemed to have increased from the last time she recalled. In the ghetto, women give birth by the dozens. A dozen other children she couldn't recall were cheering excitedly, waiting for the goodies from her.
Gladys couldn't move as the children made it difficult for her. She was extremely happy to see them. She was their mother. One time or the other, she had strapped some of them to her back when their mothers were busy or when she just needed to feel the warmth of a child in her back. Within a short while, most of the tenants were out of their rooms. A pocket of greetings were thrown here and there. Welcome Sisi Gladys or Welcome Gladys.
One of the women had to hijack Gladys from the children so that she could proceed to her room. Her room was the last on the left. The children, notwithstanding chanted all the same and waited excitedly behind her.
