Chinedu forgot to turn off the pot of beans when he first got it on the stove, and slept off, in his one room apartment.
He was awakened at 2:13 AM and began to cough as if it were an old generator. There was a lot of smoke in the room. The pot changed color and had become black. Even the beans were unhappy!
“Ahn-ahn!”, his neighbour shouted out at the door, pounding the door. "Young man, do you wish to burn us all?”
Chinedu carried in red eyes and a towel around his shoulder.
“Ma,” he said, “I'm sorry.”
The woman shrieked and stalked away.
He stood there silently for a while. The air was filled with a mix of the scent of burnt rubber and the smell of regret.
Three months ago, Chinedu was comfortably living in his parents' house in Ibadan. Food came out of the sky! Electricity bills were no less than a puzzle to young people. His mother would leave food for him in the kitchen even if he woke up late.
Now however, he was twenty-three, and worked at a small printing establishment at Ojuelegba as a junior graphic designer, and lived in Lagos.
The entire Lagos scene was hectic.
The buses shouted.
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The conductors' shouts were louder.
The weather was not at all friendly.
The following morning, eyes sleepy, Chinedu dragged himself to work. Mr Balogun, his boss, adjusted his glasses and frowned.
“It's already been 30 minutes.”
"Excuse me, sir, but it was due to traffic.”
"In Lagos, there is always traffic: Get up early from home."
Chinedu was silent and sat at his desk.
His phone vibrated.
Mummy.
He didn't move his lips but his smile turned into the answer.
“How are you, my son?”
“I’m fine, Ma.”
“Have you eaten?”
Chinedu looked at the pure water and gala on his table.
Smoothly he lied, "Yes.“Yes,” he lied smoothly.
“You sound tired.”
“I’m okay.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, Ma.”
At the end of the call he allowed himself to sit back in his chair and gaze at the ceiling fan that was making its slow rounds above.
The truth was really quite straightforward.
He was tired.
Bored of doing all the calculations before purchasing food bills.
Discouraged by having to endure dirty men and women inside crowded buses next to him.
Giving up on believing he was on top of things.
That evening it rained heavily all across Lagos. The roads filled up very rapidly. There were dozens of people including Chinedu under a shade of a shop.
His cell phone chimed once more.
That time, his landlady.
The man said, "Your rent balance is still two weeks.The man said, "Your rent is still two weeks. I hope you will not forget, I hope you will remember.”
“I remember, sir.”
“No stories, I don't want stories.”
The call was terminated right away.
Chinedu closed his eyes.
He was once again paid a month after the cut. He had few cents in his pocket to cover the cost of a week's worth of transportation.
Next to him a lady with bread and vegetables was sighing.
To no one in particular, she said, “Adulthood no get manual.”
There were a few who laughed quietly.
Even Chinedu smiled.
As the rain abated he got into a bus that was going home. The conductor crammed seven people into the seats for four.
“Shift! Shift!”
“SORRY, CAN'T DISAPPEAR!” grumbled one man.
“Look after yourselves, you folks.
Chinedu had to reach his street, his shirt is still wet from the rain. Slowly he went up the stairs and came across his neighbour who was peeling yam outside her room.
The same woman who was involved in the burnt-beans incident.
She looked up. “It's been a long day, haven't you come back yet?”
“Yes, ma.”
“You have eaten?”
He laughed weakly. “Not yet.”
She stood up and went to her room and came back with a yam and egg sauce on a plate.
“Take.”
“Ahn, no ma, it’s okay—”
“Before I change my mind, take!
He gathered it up very carefully.
“Thank you.”
My name is Mama Tobi,” she said. “Not every time, ‘ma’.”
“Yeah, I'm smiling real good,” he said, his mouth crinking into a smile. “I’m Chinedu.”
“Yes, I know… when I talk to my mom on the phone it's like the church microphone.”
He laughed.
Having dinner on his little bed, that night the food was better than for a fortnight.
Days became routine.
Wake up.
Rush for bus.
Work.
Return tired.
Repeat.
Slowly it all began to change.
He learnt to cook without burning pots.
He found lower prices in other markets.
Stopped taking the bus without checking the direction of the bus.
Sometimes he sat out with Mama Tobi in the evening while she gossiped about all those in the compound.
One Saturday afternoon, his little sister, Ada, phoned him.
“Brother Chinedu!”
“My troublesome sister.”
When is your return?
“Soon.”
Mummy said, "now you will wash your own clothes.
“Unfortunately.”
Ada laughed loudly. You have to suffer, “so you have suffered.”
“A little.”
“Can you send me money for shawarma?”
“look at this little girl.”
“Please na.”
He looked at his bank statement and lowered his head in dismay.
“You guys believe that Lagos is heaven.”
“Is it not?”
Chinedu glanced around his small room. The fan was unstable if it spun too rapidly. One lizard was standing on the wall, just like a house inspector.
Finally, "No," he said. “But I've got used to it now I think.”
For two days that night had brought darkness, but electricity suddenly came back.
The whole compound broke out in rejoicing.
“Up NEPA!”
Music played in some way down below. Children were running about happily.
Chinedu was standing by his window and smiling.
Afterwards, his cell phone buzzed.
Salary alert.
He blinked, before coming back to check again.
The cash was in.
Right away he burst out laughing.
Not a cool laugh.
Not a mature laugh.
He heard a roar of laughter, a joyful sound that resounded throughout the space.
From the outside, Mama Tobi called out from her door, “Why you laughing like somebody that won bet?”
Chinedu came out with a smile on his face.
“Today I can purchase chicken, for I'm not hungry anymore.”
Mama Tobi clapped her hands, and it was dramatic. “Ah! You are accepted here now, Lagos.”
Chinedu thought maybe for the first time since she moved into that small flat it was possible she was correct.
