Why So Serious and Crazy

Le Jour ni l’Heure 4317 : Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1960-1988

Crazy It’s a sight as common as the bright yellow buses: two fighting. Drivers boxing. Two car owners testing the strength of their egos with the force of balled up fists. I remember the day I went crazy. I hasn’t happened yet, but I’m looking at it now. Me, pot-bellied. Me with a Camry bruised …

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Liquid Full of Relief

I entered the empty bus after walking a good stretch of the bus stop looking for a less messy point to cross the pool of mud that had gathered in the middle of Oshodi. I tip-toed over puddles and chided myself for leaving the house fifteen minutes late. I’d fallen prey to that additional minute …

Is It Such a Bad Thing To Be Left Behind

My excuse for going was research, but I ended up doing little research and lots of nothing. Lots of lying by the window, listening to birds chatter—mostly bats, but some other birds I didn’t recognize too. They called to themselves with abandon, nothing to interfere with their morning gist except mother’s bathroom solo.

Run, Run, Run

If the bus conductor with a golden tooth tells you the fare to Ijebu-ode is one thousand five hundred Naira, don’t protest. Just crawl into the bus, fold into the window seat, and watch life unfold slowly on the wet streets of Oshodi. If, after thirty minutes in the car, someone passing asks the conductor …

Matuwo

Your bus pauses at an intersection, about to take an alternate route through one of Mushin’s jagged streets. Across the road, two men dance around each other with their fists held up. One is tall, large, built like a bouncer without a need for weights. He is dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans. …