DEAR 5NAIRA

 Dear Five Naira,

Hero of my childhood. In my tiny hands, you were big. In my young mind, you held mindblowing possibilites. Down low in my pocket, you raised my shoulders.

Dear Five Naira,

In the market place, you were pregnant with baskets of green vegetables; tomatoes the size of oranges; fishes swimming in sauce and living in cans; and milk that could powder the faces of a thousand Instagram baddies.

Dear Five Naira,

Once upon a time, people laboured for 30days to have you visit their bank accounts. In the beer parlour, your voice boomed "serve round", making visions blurry, knees shaky and eager throats became race tracks for pepper, soup and goat meat.

Dear Five Naira,

You were the gift that was received with prostrating gratitude, and you evoked the blush of beautiful women. You and the Dollar were once classmates, until you started repeating classes, then your class dropped, and the Dollar went to higher school at Harvard.

Dear Five Naira,

That year, you could run things that the elder siblings born after you couldn't catch up with, even today. Especially that sibling, the chameleonic one, sometimes a dusty brown, sometimes a bright blue, moving from palm to palm, dancing feverishly to the vibes of Isegun J, while proudly displaying the tattoos of the old kings that lived in the Central House of Money, but no purchasing power.

Dear Five Naira,

I wanted to speak with you, but you couldn't be found. I looked everywhere: Owambes, clubs, in a toddler's school bag and even the waist pouch of the Akara seller at the junction, still I couldn't find you.

At last, I saw you sitting in a beggar's bowl, squatting and squinting on the rail tracks at Agege. There you sat, dejected, not one of you, but five!

Five Five Nairas couldn't make the homeless and hungry owner"s smile.

UNDERGRADUATE KAYA

 Hi.

My name is Kunle Omope, let me tell you a story.

Long before my advertising career I once worked in a Warehouse around Aswani Market in Lagos.

I was a Warehouse Officer and my job was to count, record and supervise the loading and offloading of bags of rice,.

A trailer of rice coming into the warehouse carried 600 bags. These bags are offloaded and neatly stacked in 20mins or less by a gang of five labourers.

Their strategy is having one labourer(loader) standing on top of the stacks of rice in the trailer. He helps 3 labourers(runners) carry and place a bag on their heads as they run back and forth from the loader to the stacker. The stacker is the 5th labourer who recieves and stacks the bags on the warehouse floor.

Back then, they were paid six thousand naira to offload a trailer of 600 bags of rice. Their contractor/Oga who himself is a veteran labourer gets a cut from the 6k, while the labourers share what is left equally.

One day, an undergraduate(let's call him Omo School) came into the warehouse to look for work. He pled with the Oga to allow him work with the labourers, assuring him of his strength. He needed to complete his school fees in the university.

Out of sympathy, Oga attached him to one of the gangs.

Now, the head of the gang was not pleased with Oga's decision, but he had no choice but to agree because Oga was god!

Next, they tested Omo School by slapping and grabbing his lower back to ascertain whether he could withstand the pressure of their kind of brutal work. The look on the face of the gang leader showed that Omo School's hours were numbered in the warehouse.

Omo school is added to the runners and work starts.

At first , he showed initial gra gra and ran with bags on his head. But after going back and forth like 7 times between the loader and stacker, Omo School began to slow down; his legs started to shake and his eyes bulged under each 50kg bag of rice.

To make matters worse, his fellow runners were not having it and smacked him in the back everytime they raced past his gradually-tiring body. Each smack to the back was followed by a mocking voice "Sucking Blood".

Sucking Blood was a name given to time-wasting labourers who were not putting in the work. They were seen as "Blood Suckers" who were feeding off the blood and energy of their colleagues.

The trailer had not been offloaded half way when Omo School's head could not bear the weight any longer, so he switched to bearing the load on his face and neck. In this posture, after only one back and forth, Omo School crashed on the floor of the warehouse and wept with exhaustion.

His tears drew laughter from the gang of labourers, but pity from Oga.

Oga pulled him aside and poured some cold water over his head. He then offered him a bottle of half drunk Coca Cola. Omo School gulped the Coke hungrily, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down in a desperate attempt to cure his dehydration.

When Omo School finally stopped crying, Oga gave him a one thousand naira note and said,

"Omo School, I know say you no fit do this our work, but I just say make I give you chance to try. Oya, go look for office work, good luck.

From where I stood counting and recording, I watched Omo School walking slowly out of the premises. He was drenched in sweat. His shirt hung over his shoulder. He was too tired and sore to put it on.

The end.

SALARY WEEK AT OSHODI

 It's salary week!

This reminds me of a story.

Back when I was a warehouse officer somewhere on Oshodi Apapa Expressway, I had a fearfully beautiful experience.

Our salaries were not paid into our bank accounts. They were delivered to us in envelopes carried in a wheel barrow that was pushed around the warehouse.

Your name would be called out and your envelope would be handed to you.

So, on one of those days, we worked late into the evening.

I left the warehouse at about 9pm with my salary safely secured in my sling bag. Boarding a bus from Aswani to Oshodi was usually treacherous at this time of the night, still I boarded.

Then came the heavy traffic at Toyota Bus Stop which had me arriving Oshodi at past 11pm.

Now, this is not the Oshodi of today o,this was the pre-Fashola Oshodi, one of the most dangerous places on planet earth.

As I alighted from the bus under the bridge, hoping to find one last Molue enroute Abule-Egba, I was met with an empty bus stop, dark and fearsome.

Instinctively, I patted for my 20k salary in my sling bag, it was still there... but at this point I wasn't sure whether it would get home with me, because in the distance I saw glowing lights near the lips of male silhouettes.

Every once in a while the glow would throw off sparks, followed by plumes of smoke that filled the air with the unmistakable smell of Marijuana.

As I squinted into the partial darkness, I made a mental count of about 4 boys sitting around a woman selling shekpe.

I noticed the guys were puffing and staring in my direction. It was only a matter of minutes before I'd be robbed, I thought to myself.

I had only one option left- ATTACK!

Abi, don't they say the best form of defence is attack? I had to defend myself and my 20k salary.

So, I walked slowly and confidently toward them. Taking a deep breath, I summoned my gruffiest voice

"Eyin boys, kilo n'sele"?

Before they could respond, I gently snatched a half smoked Igbo from one of them and took a deep drag.

I took a second drag and from the corner of my eye I could see the look of surprise, admiration and camaraderie in their eyes.

I ordered the woman selling shekpe to give us two bottles of pelebe. I took a swig from one of the bottles, scrunched up my face in response to the bitter, burning taste to further offer them my non-judgemental acquaintance.

Still with my gruffy voice, I started a conversation with them on how I had closed late and now there were no buses for me to get home, except for some occasional Okada bikes zooming past.

Immediately, they swung into action inspired by brotherly love and started consoling me.

Not too long afterward, an Okada appeared from the distance. The guys flagged him down with wild gestures and loud threats.

They instructed him to carry "Baba"- that's me.

I paid for the shekpe, took another drag from their Igbo and mounted the bike straight to Iyana Ipaja where I would get another to my house.

As the bike flew, I felt the high of the weed in my head. It was light and dreamy. The wind felt cool on my face and I could still hear the echo of the guys friendly shouts "Baba oooooo"!

Before any of you begin to ask me questions about Igbo smoking, this is the end of the story.

STRAY HORSES

 On many occasions, when I visit the Island, I see many horses straying on empty fields.

I see their ribs sticking out from the sides of their once very muscular torsos.

Their heads hang down in both despair and an attempt to feed on dry grasses.

These same horses were once champions of the race course. They once carried rich men and galloped to the applause of a sophisticated audience.

They brought medals and trophies to their owners and exciting entertainment to all who gazed upon them.

The stables where they rested and slept were made from the finest and sturdiest wood The hay they fed on were cut from the finest and nutrient dense grasses.

They didn't go to their doctors, their doctors came to them, caring and attending to their health needs.

They even got monthly pedicures and wore shoes on their hooves.

But today, no one seems to remember them or the races they ran, or the medals they won, or the people they helped win bets and made richer.

They are now left under the merciless tropical sun, their gaunt looks protesting to their former owners and perhaps the Creator who gave them to the service of men.

Now they eat food meant for straying sheep and goats.

The one who once won wars on and off the race course, is now carrying last.

This post is not about horses, it's about us.

You were born to run, to gallop, to win.

Don't give up!