It was a typical Lagos morning and you know the mix – plenty traffic (human and vehicular), music and horns blaring, and a cacophony of sounds from the rest of humanity. Then the conversation began, “who never pay me?!” demanded the driver. The mediator in the second row began recounting who-owned-what-money she had sent forward to the driver.
Meanwhile, the “culprit” sat silently, caught up in her world. The driver proceeded to park and start a cross examination with the mediator, whilst painstakingly counting the money in his hands and assigning ‘owners’ to them and their potential change, in the event that he couldn’t find his balance, he would hold onto those.
At last, she came forth and the observers wondered why she was initially silent. She claimed to have been on a call and didn’t hear him until the interrogation began. Of course, no one believed her and none voiced it out either, except one and he got a mouthful of invectives thrown at him.
The journey continued, as did the interrogation. The driver queried why she did that and also enquired to know where she would alight, so he could give her her balance. She rained the leftovers of her abuses on him and that gave the observers something to conclude on – and that’s who she is, despite the attempt to look and dress a part.
But I choose to sing, so I won’t engage an uncouth lady, that’s if she was a lady.
@imanikel 04:05:2023 Frances Kelvin Otung
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