Today, I took a selfie mid-trip to remind myself to conk my head if I was still inside a Danfo by March 18, 2026. By then, I must be inside my fine Lexus RX 350, latest model. I took a selfie to document
the moment—I was sweaty, tired, with eyes that accused me of possibly considering armed robbery
or money laundering to afford the car. But I was unbothered because my skin was on fleek despite the heat and
mustiness. Purrr.

Today, I heaved a sigh of frustration as I settled into the bus I boarded to work. I had dodged the first
conductor at the bus stop in favor of the second because his fare was 100 naira lower. Oh Chim! I
regretted my decision five minutes later when the bus driver and conductor kept stopping for several
minutes, calling other passengers and delaying the rest of us.

“Kaothar, they need to make their money too,” I told myself.

Today, my head was nudged by a sack of clothes—or rags—by a passenger who refused to put her
wares in the boot because the conductor charged extra. She said she would lap it like it was her baby,
so she nudged my head and almost dislocated it with her heavy sack.

“Please adjust your sack,” I mumbled, sighing again as the bus waited at another stop.

Today, a hard-bodied woman with a severe face and tribal marks on her cheeks tried handing over a
sickly, bald-headed, covered in scabies, forlorn child to me to lap. I shook my head no, and she looked at me with daggers in her eyes as she
hissed.

“You go born one day, no be so?” she said, looking me up and down.

I muttered a prayer against evil eyes as I protectively placed a hand on my lower belly. She kept
insulting me, ranting about wicked people who refuse to help others. I stared out the window and
tried to tune her out. My friend and I have heard too many stories about children dying after
accepting snacks from well-meaning strangers. I can’t be the outlier whose own case would start
with a child fainting from sitting on my lap. Lagosians are impatient. They would throw a tire around
my neck and roast me into medium rare, scratch that, well-done asun without pausing to ask the mother whether the child
fainted from malnourishment or a terminal illness.

Today, I saw a man in a G-string. It was the conductor of the bus I boarded, and his panties peeked
under his Ankara top as the breeze lifted it while he clung to the roof of the bus. I tried to imagine
why he chose to wear a lacy black G-string instead of regular boxers—or going pantless, as was the
norm for many conductors.

I have seen more dangling members than I ought to in this Lagos. I have seen enough ass cracks with
trousers pulling so low I could see smudges of brown mush clinging to those crevices. Or could it be
one of those quirks of men who get a kick out of wearing female underwear? But a conductor? In
Nigeria? Then I chided myself for kink-shaming and assuming certain fetishes were limited to certain
social classes.

“Maybe he didn’t know it was his wife’s panties he took while dressing for work this morning,” I said to myself
in good faith, since I was fasting, and Allah would not want me to think the worst of another human.
Astagfirullah.

Today, I remembered the naked man in Obalende that my friend said bathed in the full glare of
passersby.

“It’s jazz,” I had told her.

She disagreed and said he looked like one of those Agberos who sleep under the bridge who was just having his morning bath.

“Was he naked naked, or he wore boxers?”

She said he was naked naked.

I chalked it down to Lagos doing something to you, unraveling the knots in your head and twisting
them into a tangled mess. Otherwise, why would its purported citizens argue down anyone who
mentions the stench pervading the whole city? The dirtiness? The reckless abandon and disregard
for hygiene?

Today, I selected and paid for a brand-new, shiny black Toyota in a fitful sleep at my desk. I saw
myself inhaling the leather interior and leaving the nylon on for weeks so everyone would know it
was tear rubber.

It reminded me of Baba Governor in my neighborhood in Ilorin, who bought a new laptop and would
always clamp it under his armpit, refusing to buy a laptop bag. Baba Governor wanted the whole
neighborhood to see his silver laptop and know that he had arrived. When he got an Android phone,
he would make loud calls in the compound and stroll into the street, yelling huge numbers and
dropping important information just so his enemies would see that God had done it for him.
I will be Baba Governor. I will drive my car around my neighborhood, blasting my horn unprovoked. I
will use my car to hit men who pee by the roadside, contributing to the odor in Lagos with the acrid
smell of their dried urine.

Today, I priced my colleague’s 2009 Toyota and asked if he wanted to sell.

He asked for 5.5 million naira.

I told him not to bother.

I trekked to the bus stop to board a bus home as he sped off in his car.

5.5 million keh?

Today, I was squashed between two fat people—a woman to my left and a massive man to my right.
They both rested their fat arms on my shoulder, and it felt like I was carrying a barbell twice my
weight at the gym. I shifted, and they shifted with me. Their bodily fluids seeped into my clothes and
left their odor on the fabric.

I heaved a sigh of relief when one of them dropped off at Ogudu—but not before pushing their
buttocks into my face and almost suffocating me.

This evening, I will drop off at my bus stop and walk up the bridge, almost collapsing from exhaustion
from Ramadan. I will struggle for breath as I climb up the bridge, then climb down again, walking to
the estate to board a keke before dropping off and walking down my street.

I will quickly throw some things on the cooker, hasten to perform my missed prayers, and then break my fast with
whatever I manage to conjure.

After evening prayer, I will sit in bed, surf through Jiji, and stare longingly at a used
2016 Toyota in vibrant red.

It’s just 16 million.

If only it were in shiny black, I might have considered it.