Chapter 1: Street Respect Na For Who Get Money

People dey call me errand boy—just one of those boys wey dey follow big man pikin waka, dey see as life fit sweet anyhow for person wey get money pass sense.

Dem no dey call me by name, na just "errand boy" everywhere I waka. Sometimes, when I waka for junction, I dey hear people whisper behind, "Na that boy wey dey follow Ifedayo around like handbag." Even the vulcanizer for our side dey use me take gist, "If you see as e dey run up and down, ehn, like say na e papa own the street." Even my slippers dey always cut for junction, but dem no send—na errand boy I be. I don tire for the name but wetin man go do? For this Lagos, na who get connection dey chop beta.

The big man pikin na Ifedayo. If you see am, you go think say na gentle person—always dey wear gold-rimmed glasses, tall and slim, skin fair like person wey no dey see sun. Even if e broke, women go still dey rush am.

I swear, na the kind person wey if you see am for VI or Banana Island, you go think say na one oyibo pikin. Always smell nice, cloth dey clean as if e just comot from washing machine. Even old mama for street dey greet am, dey call am "fine bobo." If you see the girls wey dey trip for am, ehn! Some dey even dey use juju just to make am look their side.

Last month, Ifedayo carry one fine model wey e just toast go chop for mama put. As dem dey eat, e just dey throw cigarette butts anyhow for ground. Old street sweeper waka come, dey grumble as e dey sweep—maybe e dey complain say person wey get sense suppose use the empty tin wey dey table, but Ifedayo no send.

E even puff smoke come near the woman food, but the mama just keep quiet—she sabi say big man customer na another wahala. The old sweeper, Baba Seyi, na person wey don sweep this street for over twenty years. E dey shake head as e sweep, mutter Yoruba under breath, but e still dey do e work well. Nobody wan challenge big man pikin, abeg.

Sharp sharp, Ifedayo stand up, bend pick all the cigarette butts by himself. E bend, pick the butts, dust powder still dey for e trouser—no even mind as e hand touch dirty. E smile give the old man, talk, “Sorry for the wahala.”

You for see as the old man eye shine, e no expect am at all. The people wey dey chop for the place just dey look—na so everybody quiet. One woman even whisper, "Ehn-ehn, fine boy get respect." For Ifedayo face, e dey shine like person wey win lottery, but the smile get another meaning—na only me fit see am.

The model wey dey beside am tap e hand. “Abeg, leave that thing, na dirty you wan carry for hand?”

She come draw face, like say she dey vex. Her French nails long, she dey try raise hand make e no touch her again. Her tone sharp, like say she dey form big woman, but for Lagos here, everybody sabi say respect na better thing.

Ifedayo shake off her hand, come put serious face, bark, “Keep quiet. Wetin dey dirty there? This man dey do better work pass you wey dey show body up and down.”

Na so the place silent. Even mama put hiss, one man for corner cover mouth—everybody shock. Even mama put drop spoon for ground. The way Ifedayo voice thunder, e shock everybody. For Lagos, na only money fit make person yarn like that for public, but this one loud pass generator.

As e finish, the model face just pale. She no fit talk again.

She just dey look ground, eyes dey water small. For that moment, na shame full her body. If you see as her hand dey shake, you go pity her, but nobody send am. She pick her bag, lock mouth, no talk again till dem finish.

After the old man waka, Ifedayo just dey shine teeth, pull phone call all of us.

The smile for Ifedayo face no be normal one—na the type wey dey make person fear. He dial phone, voice still calm, but I sabi say e dey plan something. Boys wey dey nearby begin stand well, dey ready for order.

“You call us, Bro Dayo?” Musa rush come, shampoo foam still full e hair—e fit don run comot for shower.

Everybody burst laugh when dem see Musa head. The foam dey drip for e eyebrow, e dey pant like person wey run relay race. For street, if Ifedayo call you, you must show, no matter wetin you dey do—even if you dey chop or dey bath.

“Una see that old man?” Ifedayo point the sweeper, drop one bank card for table. “Who fit put am for hospital go carry this card.”

The way he talk am, you go think say na small game. But everybody for there sabi say once Ifedayo talk, e mean am. The card na Zenith Gold, the kind wey only big men dey get. Even the mama put woman, Madam Ronke, eye flash—she know say this one pass her power.

Musa and the other boys eye just shine. Everybody know say any card wey dey Ifedayo hand get at least seven digits.

Na so dem all dey look each other, like hungry dog dey eye bone. For this our area, seven digits fit change your family story, buy better land for village, even marry two wife.

That night, six strong boys beat seventy-year-old man for twenty minutes. Blood full the old man face, four ribs break, blood dey come out for e head. The night hot, but the street cold with fear. Reporter wey vex come try stop them, raise phone dey record, shout, “Stop! I don call police already!”

I no fit sleep that night—my ear still dey hear the old man cry, dey beg in Yoruba, "Omo mi, e jor, e ma pa mi!" Even the moon hide for cloud, like say e no wan look. The ground soak with blood, and people for street dey whisper, "Wetin be this na? God no go gree!"

Musa point am, wicked voice, “Wetin concern you? Shift!”

If you see Musa eye that night—red like hot charcoal. The reporter, Aunty Gloria, still dey raise phone, her hand dey shake but her mouth no quiet. Even some boys begin dey fear for wetin Musa fit do next, but nobody wan lose chance for money.

But the journalist no gree, e record everybody face. Police come soon, carry Musa and the rest go station. Normally, criminals go try dodge wahala, but this time, all of them dey rush to confess, dey claim say na them start the fight. Everybody sabi the reason: who take the blame go collect Ifedayo card.

You suppose see the way dem dey drag police, "Oga na me! Na me first slap am!" Even police confuse. As dem dey go, some dey cry, some dey smile. All because of one bank card. One old mama for next compound just dey whisper, "Jesu, cover us o!" But for this street, na blood dey pay for food. Who go be next?