Hustle…

 (Non fictional account of this unfortunate day)

You are screaming when you see the phone on the floor, thinking for split seconds, gasping, and trying to stop the tears from falling. It is happening—the one thing you have feared in this economy is happening to you. Your phone screen is cracked

You forgetting which Keke will take you to the office, so you keep walking, singing gospel songs to gather momentum. It’s hard for the tears not to fall, but you are determined not to look like your problems. You are keeping a wide smile as you walk kilometers, looking for a ride to take you to the office.

The office is feeling cozy. You are grateful for forgetting to switch off the AC. You pick up the phone to call your sister, hoping she picks up. You are narrating what is happening in a very light manner. It seems like it is not bothering you, and it is one of those moments where “it is what it is,” knowing fully well that it isn’t. You are texting a friend, calling a love interest, and pretending to continue with work.

The instant headache isn’t even letting you get creative or type the few words you want on the system. So, you are calling a long-time best friend whose side hustle is selling, repairing, and swapping phones at the plaza. You are breaking down halfway through the conversation. You are ashamed and shocked by your behavior, but you couldn’t help it. He is telling you to come over in an hour.

You are tired of hearing people complain about how harsh the economy is. So, you are pretending you don’t hear the conversation the bike man is trying to start. You are not in the mood to remind him of how you begged people to vote for Peter Obi and they refused, so you are just keeping quiet. He is taking the turn to your old office. You are realizing this too late, and you are asking him to turn back. He is adamant about how traffic-free this site is. Your chest is tightening as you are approaching. Things are changing. It used to be your home, and now even the grass is greener. You miss them. You want to stop and enter, but you have to fix your phone today no matter what. So, you are just passing by and stopping right in front of your friend's shop.

It is taking him ten minutes to meet you there. He is telling you about the course he is studying now, looking at the phone and saying sorry. Things are expensive now, he says. “I sold an iPhone 13 for N450,000 on Sunday, and on Wednesday, it hiked to N530,000.” You are laughing because earlier you were thinking of swapping your phone if changing the screen would be difficult.

He is talking about the economy too. You are telling him you're tired. "If we aren’t comfortable with the government, we will hold them accountable" Instead, it feels like we are dating a man we can only complain about to our friends and can't tell him to his face. He is laughing at this, but you mean it. You are telling him the government has made life too difficult, and we no longer have the luxury of alternatives. It keeps getting harder. You are telling him how your people no longer eat swallow; it's either rice or sweet potatoes from their farm. He is telling you about the area boys who are stealing the iron holding the train tracks together. You both are complaining of a lack of education and, most importantly, hunger.

He is telling you the price to fix the phone. You are laughing at the inconvenience and how you can't afford it unless you are prepared to go hungry for a few weeks. It is hurting badly, but you are opting to get a cheap charger instead. Without a choice, you are deciding to manage the phone for now until you can't anymore.

He is taking you through all the corners there are. He is telling you to hold your phone. You are praying silently that you leave this place intact, without any private part missing. Men are making passes at you. You want to tell him to get you any kind of charger so you can just leave here, but he is insisting on going deeper to get a cheaper and faster one. It’s too late to turn back, and you are seeing people—different faces, different hustles—all in one place, looking to make ends meet for today.

You are holding the charger tightly in one hand and your phone in the other. You sincerely don’t want this, but you have decided you will live through it. It could have been worse, so you are taking the keke back to the office. You are trying to concentrate, and it is very difficult. A certain governor, or his child, or wife, or an in-law is passing by. So, the road is blocked, and you are counting 7 cars in that convoy. You are hissing; you are irritated. You can't type on your phone properly; you can only answer calls at a certain angle. And you cannot afford a new one.

Nigerians aren't going to kill you; you are leaving. But before that, you are going to eat. So, you are taking another bike to Chicken Republic. You are contemplating whether you should get the rice that comes with two chickens or one. Big Coke or small Coke? Big rice or small rice? You are deciding to still manage your money. You are taking your food and sitting down. The food is tasting bitter; the AC is too cold; the faces are too happy. Everything is irritating you, so you decide to rush your food and leave.

You are about to leave when the rain starts. You hate August for this. You are missing your car. You are thinking about it for a while. You have grown fatter, and it feels like you are older too. You are noticing all the elderly women, their hairstyles, and their fashion sense. You are wondering what yours will be like 5 years from now.

An elderly igbo man is wearing a fake gold watch, a golden round long necklace and an old rough Versace shirt  He is coming in with a young girl. He is making loud, irritating calls, talking about millions of naira and how people need to pay him back his money. The lady is slightly impressed; she is telling him to calm down. He is putting on a smile as they continue to talk. Her hair is brighter than yours, the same hairstyle as yours. She is seeming overdressed for a date here, and if your eyes are judging correctly, she should be 18 or 19.

You aren't going to notice anyone if not for the rain. Your plate is empty. You are thinking about how you are underperforming at work and how you can't afford to fall sick, so entering the rain isn’t an option.

It is feeling so wrong to get another plate of food. Harder days are coming, and you aren't solely anyone's responsibility. You are going to have to make real decisions. You can't remember the last time you received or sent a gift. You blame it on the government.

The rain is finally stopping, so you are taking a ride back home. You are thinking about what to cook, your friend's new job, your nephew's response when you told him you weren't feeling well, what to post on Twitter, and whether you should post a picture on Instagram. You are remembering a Bible verse. You argue against it, but you are shutting your heart to it. You are thinking about the dirty clothes in the machine, praying for electricity, and hoping for a miracle alert.

You are realizing you didn't ask how much the Keke will take you home. You are hearing him rejecting people from entering because of the fare. You are praying that the money you have in your bag will be enough. You don't have the strength to fight, beg, or get embarrassed in public. You are closing your eyes tighter this time. You are trying to breathe and praying that today ends well.

You are thankful that his fuel is running out, and he is stopping to get it at the black market. You are making an excuse to withdraw a one-thousand-naira note from the POS. You are realizing your phone is about to die, so you quickly do so. He is returning with a small boy, not less than 8 years old, who is hassling with the keke driver about how half a liter costs N400 and how he can't remove a dime from it.

Finally, you are making it home. You are rushing to climb into bed. You can't stop crying when you realize that you left the windows open this morning and the rain has made a big mess in your room. You are holding your chest and crying.

You are cleaning the room, laying a dirty blanket on the floor, closing your eyes, and imagining a year or two from now. You will be published; you see yourself giving a speech, having a housewarming, and participating in a book signing with a man and a child you adore.

For now, you aren't going to think about the broken phone, the broken account, and your broken heart. What is there to think about?