Later.
Ismaila Tafa pocketed his phone and waved down a Keke Napep.
Pandemonium ruled the street.
People were snapping pictures, alhamdulilla-ing and muttering 'eeyah.'
Further down the road, others were giving unsolicited lectures on how Gen Z would rather press phone than dodge death.
Tafa made a face. Five seconds ago, he’d been texting… about a man who died while texting.
But that wasn’t the only reason he was making a face.
Across the road, a girl was alighting from an okada and unleashing Yorùbá hellfire on the rider: “Oloriburuku Oloshi. I don mark your face! Laye laye, I no fit enter your nonsense bike again!”
She was stunning; her hips were a scandal, and her boobs rose confidently like mainland rent.
The Keke Napep had stopped now. The olokada stood there feigning innocence "Wetin I do, Wetin I do?"
Even the crowd forgot the corpse for a moment and turned toward her.
“Why she dey shout?” someone asked.
She tried to explain, but embarrassment had her gagged. The way the okada man chuckled annoyed Tafa. But like the coward that he was, he did not step in.
She hissed and yanked her change from the goat.
Apparently, the guy had been ‘tapping current’—speeding a little, slamming the brakes, and grinning each time her boobs crashed into his back. He did it three or four times before she caught on.
She stormed off now, each step shaking her ample backside. The resulting claps were rhythmic, and the crowd had something new to talk about.
The man in the gutter was momentarily forgotten.
Earlier, someone had climbed in to inspect the body. “No be only neck e break o,” he reported. “Sotin wey sharp don enter him skull."
Finally, an old woman yelled at the police officer sipping Lacasera in the sun: “Oga! You no go call the people wey dey carry dead body? If na 50 naira now, you sabi that one!”
Tafa climbed into the waiting Keke. He clutched his bag like a papoose and said his bus stop 'Transformer.'
Then he checked his phone. One last message blinked on the screen:
Welcome to Lasgidi.
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