Project 9ja Mag The Revolution. 1st Edition | Page 7

therevolution
Boluwatife Adefunke Boluwatito
University of Ibadan

OF SUNSET
and other unknown
tales
It’s a dusty Harmattan evening in the city of Lagos. As usual, there is a horde of people at the
bus-stop. No bus is in sight yet. A trail of dust signifies an oncoming vehicle. People scamper in read-
iness for the struggle of boarding the vehicle. Typical of Lagos.

Most people get in but you do not. You don’t know how to beat the rush for a bus with a hiked
fare without having your phone and wallet picked, your hair yanked out, or the thoughts of other pas-
sengers flooding you with unwanted conversations. So you find an unsteady chair to sit on, waiting
for another bus regardless of the setting of the sun bathing the horizon in golden and fiery orange
streaks.

This man, having a head like a baseball and yellowed teeth — the aftereffect of the addictive
use of kola nuts and cigarettes — who you realize after a series of conversations is an agbero walks
up to you and tells you he can help you secure a seat on the next bus. Opportunities like this do not
pop up like ads so you will your tired self to listen to him. He’s rambling. He’s not going straight to the
point but you know his implied meaning.

You look into his eyes and see a tired Nigerian; one who has been ruffled by the circumstances
of life and is trying to make ends meet. He probably has a wife and one child, two children perhaps.
Or maybe an extended family. But when you look deeper, you see flutters of hope. Hope of better
living — of a better future.

But you are having none of it. Nigeria has hit you too and fucked you without lube. All you have
to offer him is the common Nigerian currency — empathy. You dust your bum and move away from
him.

It’s almost nightfall and there is no hope of getting a bus anytime soon. Your frustration results
in you pacing about until you break into longer strides, heading towards the sunset. Several other
people join in your lofty quest. There are posters of electorates pasted all over the road. You are curs-
ing and spitting and muttering to yourself. You wonder if these politicians, when voted into power,
would do any better and make a difference. So you walk down the road, muttering and cursing and
spitting some more, with sweat forming haphazard sketches on your back. Not like it would matter
anyway. Your vote wouldn’t count.
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