A Place Called Darkness

CHAPTER 7

LAGOS

Ibrahim breathed in the hot air, took it deep into his lungs, held it in a few moments longer, and then
exhaled slowly. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched his aching muscles and rotated his neck.

The sights and sounds of Lagos nearly overwhelmed him: bright yellow Danfo buses stopping and
moving on at a steady pace, their conductors yelling and urging potential passengers with "Ojuelegba!
Costain! Orile! One shance!".

Someone bumped into him from behind, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Bros you no go comot for road?" came the rough voice and some laughter from multiple people he
couldn't identify.

Welcome to Lagos, IB, he told himself with a dry smile.He had worked patiently and diligently for
another week at Alhaji Datti's place, so diligently that Alhaji had increased his salary, and Augustine had
taken a liking to him and somehow disclosed to him that The Eagle was based on the island in Lagos,
seated amongst the posh members of society but their identities were still unknown.
That's not much,
but I'll manage, he'd thought, impatient because his father would be executed in only a month's time.
He'd faked tears, lied to the Alhaji that his mother was sick and dying, that he had to leave soonest, and
the man had sent him off with transportation fare and the
hope that his job would still be there when he returned.

Where to even sleep now? he wondered, dodging another shoulder. The owner of the shoulder, a huge,
dark skinned man in a formerly white singlet and rugged jeans, had red eyes and a frown so fierce that
Ibrahim was pretty sure he was extremely vexed and looking for who to transfer the aggression to.

He knew that whoever he told his story would call him stupid for coming to Lagos without a plan in
mind, but he also knew that he just had to. He felt inconsequential in this big, noisy city with the yellow
buses and tall buildings beside little houses.

If I died right now, would anyone in this city care? He wondered.

After buying a meal of puff-puffs from an almost, morbidly obese woman at a corner of the makeshift
park, IB hurriedly ate 
between two empty Danfo buses.

"Uncle, abeg I never chop since morning," a small voice chokes from
beside where he stood. IB looked up from his food to see a skinny little boy, eyes sunken, skin ashy from
malnutrition, dehydration, and lack of a proper bath and body oils.

Without another word, he handed the child the last three puff-puffs in the newspaper wrapping, and
then the fifty Naira note that was his change.

"Thank you, saa," the child said before shuffling away.
He looked up at the sky. Evening had come, and night would descend soon. Night time on the streets of
Lagos wasn't something he feared. He crossed the major road, running because nobody stopped for
pedestrians in Lagos.

Where am I even going to? he asked himself.

Two hours later, IB was still wandering, his black school bag containing his belongings strapped to his back.

He had walked past the popular ABC transport terminal, stopping to stare at the dark green building and deciding there was nothing spectacular about it.
Then, he had entered a small street, and after that, entered many more small streets crammed with old buildings, street shops, roving
motorcyclists and cars blaring their horns. It annoyed him that the streets were so tiny, sometimes
drivers on one lane had to stop so those on the other lane could go through.

And who parks on these tiny roads! Are they not stupid?
Do they expect other drivers to now fly?

For each street he walked into, he asked a passerby for the name. Most of them sounded Yourba, he
forgot about them the moment he got to hear the next. Mobolaji. Oluwaseun. Oluwa-this. Oluwa-that.