“One day it will make sense” a random fortune teller told me last week before he added that I would meet somebody who would dash me money in the new week. I said, “Amen, amen.” He went on to say it might be a foreign person, and it might not be, but they would give me money. I said “amen, amen” again.

He waited. I waited.
He tried catching my eyes. I looked everywhere but at his face.
He pressed down on his ankara top like he wanted to straighten out the creases.
I ignored him.
He shuffled his feet. I stood firmly.

“Aunty, abeg dash me 200 naira to add to my money. I’m going to Oshodi.”

I opened my palms to show I didn’t have any to spare. Surely his vision showed him I was down to my last 1k. Maybe if I had jammed the person earlier, I could’ve spared him some cash.

All man for himself, in the wise words of renowned composer and street philosopher, Zlatan Ibile. I’m sorry, but Nigeria has made me akagum.

It was when I got home that it all dawned on me. They could have jazzed me and stolen my breasts while I was busy muttering “amen, amen” to his prayers. But I was looking for money, like millions of other Nigerians. And if it means comforting myself with a prophecy from a man in ankara with fading colours, then so be it.

“One day, it will make sense,” is what you expect a friend to say to you after you have vented and told them about everything going wrong in life. That’s currently what I’ve been applying to my days, both in and out, just so that I don’t run mad in my ripe young age.

This is aside from making sure I reduce the number of times I sigh so I won’t develop hypertension, also in my ripe young age.

But there’s a lot of stress that has threatened to choke me out of existence since March. I’ve been carrying it around with a placid smile on my face.

Lately, my friends and I seldom engage in mundane conversations when we catch up in person or over the phone. We no longer make jokes about someone who is pretending to own someone else’s property on snap or who is secretly bleaching and lying it is glow up. We now analyze the latest misfortune that has befallen the Nigerian economy. We gather like mourners, bemoaning our travails and spreading them out for each other to see clearly.

Why didn’t we take this risk?
Why did we make that decision?
Why weren’t we bolder?
Why did we shrink when we should’ve stretched?

And all I could say in response was often “hmm, hmm” on the other end of the conversation.

Just last week, in the middle of a light-hearted chat, everything shifted the moment we touched that sensitive topic, Nigeria. What I heard this time was more faith-based. How there’s a reason for everything, and why we shouldn’t let the issues of Nigeria overwhelm us.

I wanted to scream and ask, “SO WHAT IS THE REASON FOR THE UNNECESSARY SUFFERING IN THIS COUNTRY I BELONG TO???” But I held my tongue. I still exercise decorum around elderly people. Besides, I was sweating and lightheaded from the lack of electricity.

This morning, in my neighbour’s car, the radio announcement was a caution to citizens, do not ingest Sniper, and do not commit suicide by jumping into the sea. I laughed and asked if they would also provide measures to reduce the anguish that is driving people towards suicide.

And it is even sadder when the cheeky comment after every suicide report in Nigeria is that those people will suffer again on the day of judgment.
What a double whammy.

So, when I ponder issues like this, I wonder what the eventual lesson of all this pain and suffering is meant to be. Because surely, one day, this should make sense