One morning, 15yrs ago, I looked down from Oshodi bridge,
and I saw a sea of heads.
Over a thousand humans. Some going, some coming.
Traders with wares on the heads. Artisans with their tools
in their hands or slung over their shoulders. Office workers with ties around
their necks.
They were all in a hurry. Sweating faces, impatient smiles.
Different
destinations, one mission- the daily bread.
It occurred to me that every one of them had their own
stories, which we may never get to know.
For some, it is betrayal; hunger; abuse; hope denied; a
cheating spouse; a dying parent; a sick child; a new contract; a mission to
kill; a koboless wallet; a new job; a sack letter waiting;
different faces,
different stories,
different realities.
The train deafens the atmosphere as it rumbles past, causing
the earth to quake slightly.
Men sit on the moving train as they journey to their
respective hustles.
One man chews on an oily puff puff. The oil froths at the
corner of his lips. The wind blows off the oil and spittle right into the
yawning mouth of another hustler who is looking straight ahead, lost in his own
story.
The puff puff eater crumples up the soaked newspaper wrapper,
tosses it away, and then proceeds to wipe his hand clean as he runs it through
his uncombed Afro hair.
From on top of the refuse dump sandwiched bridge, I look
with pity...but the clouds do not.
Thunder claps aloud. Lightning like stretch marks streak
across the skies in the distance.
Rain comes pouring down.
Thousands of humans scamper in search of non-existent
shelters.
Half an hour later, the rain is gone just like it came.
And in their thousands, they all came crawling out of their
corners. Their hearts heavy with their stories. Their eyes, hopeful for a
better tomorrow.
