Life comes at you fast. One moment you’re riding in your fancy, luxurious car at 160km/hr on an expressway at midnight, a gorgeous woman by your side. You have no worries, except the thought of laying her on her back and digging through her insides with your manhood. Then suddenly, just as if in a trance, you soon find yourself in a public bus, galloping inside potholes, your head hitting the metal sheets the bus was made of, the stench emanating from inside the bus turning your insides. Sweat trickling down your face. You have a ton of worries, one of which is how you’ll manage another long month with less than $50 in your name. You’re busy doing permutations on the feeding combinations you’ll create to survive. Garri in the mornings, Eba in the nights, some other days, water alone would suffice. The spit from the nasty mouth of the bus conductor pulls you out from your trance, and then you find yourself staring face to face with a hardened face one-eyed man, asking for money. You search your pocket and realise the only little physical cash you had, was gone. Then you know that today is the day you die, and all your permutations are worthless, but as if God suddenly heard you when you were about to visit him, the person sitting beside you decided to pay your fare. You were so embarrassed that you wished the metal floor of the bus could open while you vanish into the cold tar of the road. But it’s impossible. You look at the individual who saved you from death, so you notice a youthful, attractive lady. After managing to murmur a ‘Thank you,’ your pride shattered. She smiles at you, you fake a smile, and the journey continues—the whole bus sounding like a gong while pushing all its mass with very little power. You doze off, and you’re back in your trance. This time, you were rich.
Who created money? Why was money even thought to be a suitable legal tender? Can’t we spend leaves instead of paper currencies with faces of ugly individuals renting their surface? It’s 2 am, and these are the questions you find yourself asking. Just another night, without sleep. It’s funny how lack of money can affect your brain. It’s almost like your body decides to sabotage you and initiate a coup orchestrated by your brain, rendering you unable to enjoy the little pleasures life has to offer you. First, you lose sleep. Secondly, your manhood refuses to be erect, your brain sending you a clear warning that the only thing that should be erect before your manhood should be your pocket. It’s painful. But what can you do? You have to concur and accept defeat, so your lack of sleep and high sexual libido cumulates into anger, resentment and frustration. At that moment, desperation is your only friend. He throws you a lifeline with crime written boldly on it. You can’t say “No” without this lifeline; you’re going to drown. So you take it wholeheartedly, and then you become a criminal. But at that point, you don’t know it yet, because everything detransition back to normal. You’re able to control your mind and your body. Your erection is solid, and you’re supposedly fully in charge.
Crime isn’t as chaotic as people want you to believe. It’s, in fact, relaxed and calm. You sit on your computer, and you defraud someone else a thousand miles away. It’s soft work. Although, a few times, your conscience springs up and starts to emotionally blackmail you, making you wonder if she was dead while you were languishing in poverty. So you look straight into her eyes and tell her to get lost. She crawls back into her cave afterall, money stops conscience. Now you’re back. The showers of money have finally fallen upon you. Everybody sees you as a blessing. They ask you about your wealth. But with a smiling face you tell them it’s grace. Pastors and Imams bless you and use your story as a testimony. They know it’s a fraud you’re into, but who cares? Money is money. Who can hate money? Your jokes are suddenly funny, even if they’re as dry as the harmattan on a December morning.
Girls flock around you like sugar ants, they want the good life, and they’re interested in your sugar. The energy gets addictive, and you’re motivated to engage in more fraud you can’t stop living the good, sweet and comfortable life. The fast life creeps on you. You despise brokenness. You become proud and selfish. You see everyone else through the lens of money.
You’re the youngest child but the oldest in terms of responsibilities your parents are proud of your new occupation. Those who tell you the ills about fraud are your enemies and haters, but those who sing your praises are your friends. They’ll be duly compensated with money. The more you have, the more you want. Your thirst for money has become insatiable. You’re living too fast yet dying slowly.
The wages of sin is death. But can you pay taxes to hades, to buy eternal life? I do not think so. From my understanding, the canoe man only receives his coin after death. So those taxes you speak of are an afterlife endeavour. At once, the money stops. You try everything you can to resurrect it, but it’s dead anyway. You try everything, physical, spiritual, natural, but it’s finished, and what is dead may never die. Then the truth dawns on you. You begin to manage, you’re not used to it, you search diligently for those you helped while you were rich, but they’re no more. Your palm oil hand has been dried. People have moved on. You begin to understand things in perspective, but it’s too late. All the jobs you despised in your youth are now looking enticing. But still, your pride holds you back. You tell yourself a lie, the same lie you’ve been telling yourself over and over in hopes that it converts into truth. But it doesn’t. It’s still a lie. There’s nothing special about you. You’re finished, and the last thing you can get out of the wretchedness of your life is a humble life. And so you sell all your luxurious items and everything you held dear to you, which reminds you of your past life of crime. You gather the money, open a shop and start trading in blue-collar, you’re no longer making soft money, but hard cash. And you’re fucked.
So, you get a nudge on your shoulder, and you awaken. The bus has reached its destination. You stand up. You get off the bus, the lady who paid your fare taps you on the shoulder, gives you her business card and tells you to call her. You nod your head like a lost puppy. You find your way home, your new life. You hold the card dearly. Maybe it’s your second chance. Your stomach began to growl. Maybe not.
I was immersed in this, life does hit us fast- escaping into our own heads sometime does keep us sane.
Every word soaked deeply