‘Remove Amala From Your Back Seat’

Some of the stories that come out of Lagos State are downright unbelievable, but the streets of this haunted city tell me a thousand stories, and none of them are lies. Because I have seen it all, and even got to experience many myself, as I bounce and flow through this city.

The last one of course involved a plate of Amala, which was cold, smelly, and had the look that only a dog would fall in love with. But a certain human would have killed for that food. A human who looked worse than a dog.

How did I become mixed with such food and man? How did I, Joey Akan, self-professed Ajebutter and the possessor of a million good words and blistering intelligence, get mixed up with trouble which involved Amala and a mad man?

Here we go:

Last weekend was one of the worst in all my days as a fake Lagosian. Fake because I have never fully absorbed the dynamics of this cursed city. I have not smoked a fat weed, drank Alomo with Agberos, Shagged a street sex worker, or used Agbo to cure my illness.

My weekend promised so much but all I realized was a ton of disappointment and anger. I was scheduled to be in Bayelsa State for the 2014 African Movie Academy Awards. I and my soft-spoken colleague Chinedu Adiele, were sent on a mission to get content for Pulse.ng and also to flex my networking skills and use small-talk to attract lots of heavyweighty African actors into our office.

But at the airport, I received the first shocker. My flight was wrongly booked for a later week. I switched into damage control and tried to save the day. But after running wild all around the airport looking like a fat lost kid who’s Mummy had intentionally lost him due to his bad behaviour, I accepted my fate: My Bayelsa journey was to be aborted.

Angry and frustrated, Chinedu got us a cab to take me back home. Without thinking, I gladly jumped in, still sulking from the thoughts of what would have been.

It is company policy for us to get receipts to validate any money we spend on official duty, to aid reimbursement and also to help the accountant not develop grey hair strands too early in life.

“Driver, you will hand me a receipt”. I called out nicely. My tired voice sounding sexy and tush.

“You pay extra if you want receipt”. I couldn’t believe what I just heard. I had to confirm my sadness hadn’t began to give me hallucinations.

“What did you say”

“If you want receipt, you go add extra money”.

Then I looked closely at the driver and discovered that we just made an error. He was just past his middle age, fifty-ish. He had a dark complexion thaty had various shades of brown, bearing testament that water and a bath soap were not usually at work on it. Even his dark hair had brown highlights. I tried to project him in my mind to see what his heydays would look like, and all I could get was the image of one angry Abgbero who loved street-fighting and Alomo.

Then I knew I had found a way to enter one chance.

‘Drop me now’, I barked. It was of no use. Agberos loved being barked at, especially, those veterans with an eternity of glorious experiences.

My ‘driver’ turned around slightly, and smiled…..”No”.

‘Mogbe’.

To be completed next Tuesday…..Peace and Good hustle.