Chapter 16: Lagos Women and Office Wahala

I don stay for this world more than two months, and from wetin I see, Chief Olumide really love him dead wife.

Na so Yoruba men dey love deep, e dey shock person. E no dey show for face, but e dey inside body.

No wonder all the strategists before me fail.

If no be juju, na just true love wey no die.

My own progress bad.

I dey count days, dey mark calendar, but nothing dey move.

Maybe bullet comments see say I no get hope—now, dem no even dey bother to insult me again.

Dem don tire, just dey watch like say na old drama dem don see before.

My own presence dey spoil the love between Chief Olumide and him late wife.

I nor wan be wedge for love wey I nor understand. E dey pain me small.

I no get past, and my future no dey sure.

The system nor give me joy, so my mind just dey float for inside Lagos traffic of thoughts.

Should I still dey try this hopeless mission?

I dey reason am, dey ask God for small sign, but even church nor gree answer me for dream.

As I dey reason, arms full of books, I no notice when I jam one fine woman for white suit, hold coffee.

Na so e be—Lagos hustle, you fit jam anybody for corridor.

Most of the coffee pour for the books—and all over her white collar.

Omo, wahala don land. That kain stain na expensive wahala.

I bend head, dey try clean books and dey apologize.

I dey beg like say na market woman I offend. "Sorry ma, no vex, abeg."

The woman voice sharp as she hold my arm: “Who allow you enter here?”

Her Igbo accent dey enter the English—sharp, no time for nonsense.

I explain say I come from bookstore downstairs.

I show the receipt and dey wave am for her face, just to prove say I get reason.

She hiss, “I never hear say company dey work with one yeye bookstore.”

As she talk am, everywhere just dey look us. I dey sweat.