Chapter 1: When Wahala Begin

The sun dey roast my neck as I rush carry my mama, her body heavy for my hand like bag of cement. Neighbours dey shout from their windows—some dey holler advice, others dey gossip. Dust dey rise as my leg dey jam stair, sweat dey pour for my face like say I just run relay race under hot Lagos sun. The smell of hot concrete and frying akara from downstairs dey mix for my nose. As I hold my mama tight, I dey pray make nothing happen to her. For our side, if you slack, Lagos fit show you pepper.

As I dey pant, carry her downstairs from our face-me-I-face-you, my chest dey pound. Na so my eye jam my car—and dem don clamp the wheel. My knees nearly buckle, I almost drop my mama. My whole body cold. My heart sink, like say person throw am inside soakaway pit. For my mind, I dey curse the estate people: 'Wetin be this wahala again?' Neighbours for balcony dey look, some dey point, others dey whisper, 'Na that man wey dey block drainage.' The shame and pain choke me, reach bone.

I no get choice. I just carry my mama go back upstairs, dey wait for ambulance. As I dey climb, sweat dey drip for my body, my chest dey heavy, and my mind dey turn—how I go explain this one give my wife Halima? People just dey look, nobody ask if we need help. For this kind place, na everybody dey face their own wahala.

My stomach dey rumble like person wey never chop ewa agoyin since morning. Time dey drag. When ambulance finally come, driver and nurse waka enter compound, my head dey spin. Na another round of wahala be this one.

Ambulance siren no even loud, just dey do small knock-knock horn. Baba Emeka, our landlord, poke him head from him shop, shout, 'Dem don come for una?' I no answer. Sweat just dey pour.

As we reach downstairs again, na to see say dem don clamp the ambulance join. I almost laugh—frustration wan kill me. For this Lagos, wahala dey breed wahala. Nurse just dey shake head, dey mumble, 'I never see this kain thing before.'