How Girlfriend's Love Saved Me From Death This Easter

While you all were busy battling enormous chunks of unfortunate previously-alive-now-cooked turkeys (or chickens, everything is chicken in Nigeria, right?), I was biting something else. It was dry, warm, and unpleasant. It’s the kind of stuff I’d feed my enemy, or the devil, or my neighbor’s devilish cat.

It was the dust.

I was biting the dust. Not only was I silently biting that substance, I was bathing in sweat, regrets, and anger at the rest of Lagos, for having so much fun while I sat at home with a broken ATM Card, and nobody to ‘raise me something’.

But it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The Easter holidays couldn’t have come at a better time. In fact it came at the perfect time. I had spent the previous week documenting the life and Nigerian times of Europe’s greatest DJ, , who we found the time and the funds to whisk away from the bright lights of London, to the gritty hustle of Lagos, and the full adoration of Nigerian celebrities.

At the end of the weekend. I was a zombie. An undead, searching for the deep corners of my house to sleep and the dark lands of strange soothing dreams. I slept all through Monday, had a clash with my boss and a colleague on Tuesday, stormed out of Sean Tizzle’s Industry Nite concert on Wednesday, slept like a criminal on Thursday, and on Friday. God had made this Easter break for me. Just for me.

But then my ATM Card did the unthinkable on Saturday. It broke into 2 bits. As I stared at the two pieces, all I felt was tears. I looked at both sides of the coin. Good news was, I had 2 mini ATM cards now. Bad news was, both of them were useless.

I paced, I sat, I walked, I thought, and I cried. I cursed all the inventor of ATM cards, and called for death of the Nigerian banking system. One thought kept ringing through my head – I was officially broke. I had no one to call, and didn’t even want to bother anyone.

“Nigger’s got pride you know”. Oloshi

I found a way to navigate Friday, Saturday and Sunday, living on low maintenance and ignoring the frequent request of my stomach to digest exotic foods.

Suddenly my stomach became super-classy and choosy. Not that it wasn’t all cool before, but now, it was super choosy. And expensive. It rejected all the garri, rice, and beans. It grew some weird taste. I was in a constant battle to resist the urge to buy Pizzas, tender lamb, seafood, zucchinis, Octopus, and every damn expensive food.

I won. Hurrah! I faced my stomach, and I showed it that I was the boss.

But by the end of Sunday, shit had gotten real. As real as smelly real. The last bill in my wallet stood at a N100. A mere tiny, N100, which on any day, it would have been dismissed as some change. Today, it was my savior, my last card, my only hope.

I began to budget my hundred naira. 30 will go to Mallam Isa for survival biscuits. 20 will be used for 3 sachets of water. And the last 50 will be kept for emergency, or if I go down with malaria.

Malaria came. It couldn’t resist.

My last N50 was used for Paracetamol, (not Agbo, but tush Paracetamol ). And I lay down, said my last prayers, and waited for the end of my time.

Death didn’t come. The killjoy. But what came on Monday was old timey love. Just like in the movies, right before I breathed my last hungry and malaria infested breath, I was rescued by an old girlfriend (Haha!) whom I stole her heart, and broke it in bits. Turns out she still had enough in her to let her love shine. She was there for me, called, took me out, paid for drugs, gave me some pocket dough (Which I resisted at first to save face, before I snatched it and said a ‘big boy’ thank you.)

Thank God for broken hearts. Today, I rode my usual BRT bus to work, glad that the break was finally done.

Just at the Lekki Phase 1 entrance, I threw out my 2 useless mini ATM cards, and made a promise never to break hearts again.

I also threw a silent curse for the Nigerian Banking system. Oloshi.

See you next week. Peace and good hustle.