Chapter 1: Survival Na Package

At thirty-two, na me dey sponsor one broke university boy for Lagos—no shame, just survival.

Some mornings, as I dey pass through the cracked tarmac and the noisy agbero shouts—“Madam, drop something!”—at the university gate, I dey feel somehow—like say my chest dey full of stone. I fit see Seyi from far, him slim hand link am to one babe, two of them dey waka near the old faculty building where guys dey always play draft. Sun don dey hot, but Seyi wear him usual shy smile, like say breeze fit blow am away any moment.

Him eyes red, full of vex and small shame. E no fit look my side well, just dey shuffle leg like person wey dem catch for lie.

The way him face look that moment, I fit swear say e no just vex; something like small injury dey hide for corner of him heart. The whole matter get as e be: na classic sugar baby arrangement be this.

So how e come be like say na me corrupt Seyi?

For this Lagos, dem go quick judge person wey dey run package, but na who no dey collect? E dey reason say e don spoil, but truth be say, many people no go mind small wahala.

I puff one cloud of smoke, turn face the light-skinned student wey dey waka pass, full of fake designer from head reach toe, and I talk:

"Ask am if e fit call person ‘Mummy’."

That one just chuckle, no even look my side, like say I dey talk to breeze. Na that kind Lagos moment, as if everybody dey run their own package, no send the wahala of another. My laughter just choke for my throat, I shake head, thinking: everybody dey find way for this city. Rain fit fall or sun fit shine, who no go chop?