Chapter 4: Harmattan Dust, Small Boy, Big Wahala

Na that time harmattan dust begin blow everywhere. My lips dey crack, nose dey block, even my eyes dey red from dust. That kind dry breeze dey enter bone, mouth dey taste dust.

I hold my wounded arm, lean for wall, and from far, I see say Chief Olumide don carry him pikin.

E just collect the boy with style, no need for greeting. E sure me say na money talk for that side.

Even with the boy, him face no change, no smile. He just quench him cigarette, look down, hold the boy hand, both enter car.

Na real Lagos big man, dem no dey show too much emotion for public. E get style.

Maybe na because I dey look too much, the boy just turn, look me straight.

Him eye catch my own, sharp like blade. I fit feel am for my skin.

I dey bleed, dust cover me, I look like person wey dem beat. Still, my body just give the fine boy small gentle smile.

I just manage force smile, even though my teeth dey pain me. Na old habit—no matter wetin, try soft small for pikin.

Him eyes cold, like him papa own, just dey measure me calmly.

E just dey observe me like say e dey collect evidence.

He look me only once.

No second chance for me. Na only glance, e turn face.

Bodyguard open car door. Door close for my face, the car drive comot, no look back.

But as the taillights fade, I know say this na just round one. Lagos wahala no dey end for night.