Chapter 1: The Battery Wahala Begin

I’d been using my old keke napep for three years when somebody stole the battery. For three days and nights, I no gree—I just dey curse the thief for my WhatsApp status. Even my neighbour for upstairs hear my voice dey para from balcony.

E pain me reach bone, I even dey use sticker and voice note join. My people for status dey reply with that crying emoji, some dey give me advice, others dey hail me: “No mind dem, e go better.” You know say for Naija, if dem thief your thing, na only your mouth you go use fight am, unless you wan wear uniform join.

But one day, out of nowhere, my neighbour—Mama Rabi—stopped me downstairs. Right there in front of everybody, she just dropped to her knees with a loud gbam.

As her knees hit the cement, you go hear am echo, people for compound turn look, some dey peep from their window. For Lagos, you know say wahala dey quick gather crowd. One small boy shout, "Drama don start o!" while old Mama Efe adjust wrapper to see better. Mama Rabi no even send who dey watch; she just go down like say na church deliverance.

She dey beg me, “Na me carry your keke battery. I take am go house to charge, e come explode! Now my whole family dey hospital. Abeg, give me the battery receipt—help me, save my family!”

Her voice crack, tears dey her face, but e get as e be. You know those kind beg wey no pure, wey get one kind trick inside.

I just hissed.

The hiss loud, I no fit hide am. For my mind, I dey reason: Na so dem dey start. Give her receipt, next thing she go twist am say na me cause the wahala, maybe even carry my name go police or court. My street sense no go gree.

Serious? If I give you the receipt now, you go turn the whole wahala on top my head, come say na me cause am, abi?

I just bone face, make sure say I no gree look soft. Na Lagos we dey, person wey soft go collect. The crowd sef dey wait my response, but I just walk pass, dey protect my own matter.