Chapter 3: Corridor Wahala

02

Na the man open. He wear big boxer shorts, cigarette for mouth, chest just dey fall, eye dey look me anyhow.

You know that kind swagger—like area boy for Obalende wey just win jackpot. As e open door, smoke waka greet my face before e talk anything.

He look me up and down. "Wetin you want?"

The corridor smell of last night’s beans and cigarette smoke, mixing for air.

The question land like slap, but I compose myself. Na Lagos, packaging na key. I even dey reason whether to greet am in pidgin or English, but I settle for respectful Yoruba mix.

First, I praise am for their marriage fire, hail am for stamina. Then I talk am nicely say I no wan dey listen to the making of their second pikin live, abeg make dem dey try calm down small.

I tell am, "Bros, una dey try o. If to say na competition, una don win cup. But abeg, make una dey pity us small for night. Make we too see sleep." I add small laugh join.

Him eye open wide. "You dey control sky, land, now you wan control our bed matter join?"

Omo, e carry chest up. Na so him pride full everywhere. You go think say na king of night dem crown am.

From there, we begin exchange correct words about family morals and health.

He begin dey talk say my own na jealousy. I return fire, say abeg, na health I dey talk. E turn to mini-debate.

He dey worry about my mental health. I give am tips on how to behave well.

I tell am, "E fit affect pikin wey dey inside womb, bros. Na so noise pollution dey start."

Next thing, he begin imagine my female relatives anyhow—abeg, e no get respect.

As he drop that line, my blood dey boil. I look am well, tell am make e no carry my family join this matter. If not for neighbors wey dey pass, e for turn full wrestling.

I come question am about who be him papa—maybe na Baba Lawal for next compound, or random man, or even village dog—make e try find out soon.

I talk am sharp, "No be every elder dem dey call papa, o. Better check your family tree."

Before I know, the guy don swell like dog wey wan bite spirit, roll sleeve, ready to fight.

E stand akimbo, eye red like pepper seller for market. Even fly sef no fit cross between us.

Me, I happy—today na my lucky day!

If you see as I dey shine teeth, you go think say I don win lottery. I dey reason say if e touch me, na hospital bill and compound fame I go get join.

E be like say new Toyota Highlander dey wave for me. I just forward my face—abeg, make you try slap me!

I even position myself well—make e no miss target.

Na that time, him wife rush come out from bedroom, push am comot, use her duck voice shout: "Honey, no mind this mad person, quack."

Her voice scatter everything. If you see as her wrapper fly, e shock me. She just drag her husband back like mother hen. Even the 'quack' join. Na real show.

Dem just bang door, end our 'friendly talk.'

I clap hand small, just dey laugh. Neighbors wey peep for corridor lock face, pretend say dem no see.