Chapter 1: The Hole

The first day I rented the flat, I noticed there was a hole in the wall. The wall paint don peel, dust dey everywhere, but that hole neat like new Naira note.

I pause small, touch the wall, run my finger around the edge. The hole no big, but e dey sharp, clean, like say carpenter use brand new chisel. For my mind, I dey wonder who get time to drill am—maybe old tenant, maybe carpenter wey just dey find where to rest him hand. For Lagos, everybody dey find way to see wetin dey happen for next door; e be like the wall dey gossip too.

Through that hole, I saw the strange couple living next door. They looked close, but somehow, they acted like strangers to each other.

Sometimes, if NEPA take light (as dem dey always do for Lagos), I go fit see their faces flash for candlelight—Amaka’s laugh go sound, but the silence wey follow dey heavy like rain wey wan fall. The air for that side get another kind tension, like say people dey together but no dey truly dey.

From that day, I became hooked on watching their lives from afar.

Na so my own life come dey get one kind film for background. Instead of TV, na my eye and that small hole be the cinema. You know as Lagos fit dry, e get as person go just dey find distraction.