Chapter 1: Gate Wahala

I deliver yellow croaker to the restaurant wey I don dey supply for years, only for dem to bounce me for entrance.

As I stand for gate under the harsh sun, my mind just dey waka anyhow. The security just bone face, eye me like agbero wey wan beg for gate—no single 'good afternoon.' My shirt don soak, sweat dey gather for my forehead. All these years, I fit enter anytime, but today, e be like say I no dey welcome. I hiss softly, look my boys—my boys dey shift foot, dey fan self with empty nylon, sweat dey drip for their jaw like person wey run marathon. But wetin man go do? For this Lagos, sometimes, e get as e be.

After I wait tire for hours, na so the boss’s son waka come finally.

The sun don begin shift small, but my own wahala never shift at all. Na so I see Idris waka come, slippers dey slap ground, face swell like person wey dem just wake for siesta. I greet am with respect, still try force smile, but my heart dey tight. This kain thing no dey happen for nothing.

“Most of your fish don die already. Because of my papa, I go help you manage am.”

Him voice dry, e no even look my face well. E be like say I no matter again—like old generator dem push go backyard. The kain confidence wey dey follow him step be like say e don plan wetin to talk. People for background dey peep, dem sabi say wahala dey.

“Ten naira per kilo. Abeg, drop am sharp sharp, no dey dull.”

The boys wey follow me just look themselves, mouth wide. Na so everybody eye big. If no be say dem dey respect my presence, some for don laugh. My hand dey shake, but I fold am tight for back, no wan disgrace myself for public.

These fish no be ordinary ones—na premium, semi-wild big yellow croaker wey dey go for 20,000 naira per kilo for market. If you see this fish for Yoruba wedding, na only big men dey chop am.

Anybody wey sabi this business know say fish wey grow for semi-wild pond dey different from those regular ones. My own yellow croaker na like gold for restaurant people—clean, fat, skin dey shine. My boys dey always boast say our fish dey sweet pass any other.

Because say we don dey run things together since, I dey always sell give their family for 15,000 naira, I never even increase price before.

Na so trust work for this life—when you build am small small, you dey expect say loyalty go last. Even for this Naija wey everybody dey hustle, person dey hope say him own people no go cut corner. I remember times wey Chief Garba go just call, say him need fish, and I go run come, sometimes even give am better discount for sallah or Christmas. This kain price dem dey call now—na real slap.

As my vex dey boil, I just hold myself. I tell am, “Abeg, go ask your papa. You no fit decide this one.”

E no easy to swallow insult, especially for where your boys dey. I just lock my jaw, my eyes dey red, but I try talk calm. For this Lagos, if you para anyhow, wahala go pass your power. I fit see say my boys dey look me, dey learn how man suppose behave.

Na so him leg jam my fish basket, fish scatter, water splash reach my trouser, the smell of fresh croaker fill air—my chest just dey burn. Fish scatter for ground, water pour everywhere. One or two of the croaker flap small before dem stop. My boys wan rush talk, but I use eye hold dem. If not for respect, e for be serious gbege. My heart dey cut.

“Uncle Musa dey sell yellow croaker for 3,000 naira per kilo. You don dey chop us since.”

Him words na insult wey dey cut deep. I just dey reason—na true say Musa dey sell, but wetin him dey sell sef? I bite tongue, no talk yet.

“My papa soft, but me I no be like am. Today, I go buy am for 10, and from tomorrow, na 3,000 I go dey give you for live fish.”

The audacity shock me. E clear say dem don dey plan this thing since. Some of the waiters for back dey peep, dey whisper. My chest dey rise, but I just bone.

I just tell my boys, “Oya, pack the fish buckets, make we dey go.”

Dem nod, no talk. Everybody dey silent. As we dey lift buckets, some of the fish still dey breathe their last. E pain me, but man no fit beg for place wey dem no value am. For Lagos, if dem close one door, make you use your leg find window.

Later, as dem use dead fish do their signature dish, na so customers scatter the restaurant with vex.

News dey spread fast for this town. E never even reach one hour, I don dey hear say customers dey shout for inside restaurant—some even carry plate dey knock table. For Naija, when food bad, people no dey keep quiet. Na so gist go full social media.

The papa come my house by himself, dey beg me make I help am, say him go pay any amount.

For my side, evening breeze dey blow when I hear knock for gate. I no expect visitor, but my spirit just tell me something big dey come. As I open door, na Chief Garba I see—him face don humble, him agbada wrinkle, sweat dey show for brow. Before e talk, I don already understand. E pain me, but na so life dey teach person sense.