Bank queue, Lagos. Ahead of me is a young man taking his turn with the teller. The teller scribbles a secret on a piece of paper, hides it under the filled withdrawal slip, and passes both papers to Man. Man unveils the written whisper and his face becomes a shy smile. He cancels the figures on the slip, editing them within the allowance of the current balance. My eyes are drawn inquisitively to that slip and I'm saddened by the hardship gossiped by the transaction.
The counting machine is not to count a single note. The teller, himself protective of the man's ego, is unwilling to slam the lone note on the slab. They exchange glances that show a shared sense of secrecy. The people behind are looking, as if they are not looking. I move closer, spreading my frame to block the stare of imagined multiple curiosities behind. The Man looks at me, finds unspoken solidarity, and the note disappears into him.
"Wait for me na," I say, as he's about to leave. All to give the impression that we came together and, for those who might have caught a glimpse of what just happened, to make them think we didn't come just for a single note.
Outside the banking hall. Mutual smiles. A few notes exchange hands and I wave him off, stopping gratitude in its tracks. Two thumbs are raised to seal the fraternity of men who, without words, acknowledge a shared experience. Eyes get flooded from the recollection of a certain past. A past that would have remained present save for ambition, study, and the grace of God.