Wednesday at 5:20PM in my hometown

Earlier in the day, after enduring three public transports filled with overly chatty people, I dashed out of the house for the 45,647th time this month to finally close my chapter with UNIUYO. But, of course, I met another dead end — though I’m at least closer to finishing than I was a few months ago. The delay came from my reluctance to embrace the forthcoming suffering (NYSC) for as long as I could, but it has been long enough now, and like the Nike logo, I decided to “just do it.”

The good news? After countless battles with the government, they have finally accepted defeat and decided to pity the youths of Nigeria, raising the Allowee for our one-year post-university deployment to 77k. A very useless amount of money in this deteriorating economy — but still better than before. And honestly, just enough motivation to endure my share of suffering.

It’s a little after 5 p.m. Now, and after making some progress (and once again emptying my pockets at every door I knock on), I make my way back home. One public transport to another, surrounded by equally tired Nigerians, balancing on my fully wedged sandals (which I hope I’m walking in gracefully and not noticeably struggling). My faded black tote bag is stuffed with every university-related document I own, and my long-overdue cornrows remain hidden under the scarf my second sister gave me over a year ago.

“It’s 200 you go pay o,” the bus driver says before I get in. I don’t even argue anymore. It’s supposed to be 100 — maybe 150 — but I stopped fighting these battles a long time ago. Honestly, I wonder how they even survive in this economy that just keeps getting worse.

Twelve minutes into my 20-minute journey, I start thinking about the three flights of stairs I climbed earlier and how I almost completely lost my breath on the second one, gripping both the stair rail and the wall for support.

“Why are you breathing like that? Is it the stairs?” my friend asked, and I nodded, my body against the wall, still trying to catch my breath. Maybe it’s because I skipped breakfast again today. Or maybe I’m just too fragile and need to take exercising very seriously. It’s both.

And the next thing he said was, “That’s terrible, oh.”

I took those words personally and decided to stop at the mart opposite the entrance of the road leading home to buy a skipping rope. New habits are tough to start, but I can be overly — maybe unnecessarily — determined. Like the time I refused to rest until I found an earring I hadn’t seen in two weeks.

Walking into the mart, praying I don’t trip over these three-inch wedges, I glance at the now-empty space where my favorite bole vendor used to be. Where did he even go when I haven’t given him a piece of my mind yet? They sold me spoilt bole and sauce once, and that night, I visited the restroom more times than I did all week. Since then, I have avoided street food like a plague.

A little girl is whining to her mother, “Mummy, why didn’t you buy it?” Her mother repeatedly tells her, “We’ll get it another day.” I know she feels bad, but at the same time, she’s probably thinking about how often she’s been “buying it” since she decided she needed more company at home than just her husband. She probably finds herself wandering into the kids’ section even on days she only came to shop for herself. She’s trying to ignore the guilt now, but she might find herself back here tomorrow, “buying it” anyway.

Mothers.

There are four boys talking and laughing beside a Corolla — the car that looks like it was distributed to everyone in this town. The security guard is walking toward them now, probably to tell them to take whatever is making them belly-laugh in a public space somewhere else. And for everyone else — you know, just humans being humans.

I’ve secured my skipping rope now. It’s ironic that it’s in the kids’ section, considering the only exercise those little humans do is make you exercise your jaws — you know, constant talking and your patience.

Evening rush hour is here, and the number of keke drivers has dropped. People are scrambling to enter the few left, and after watching four leave, I finally manage to squeeze into one. An older man beside the keke driver is yelling about a construction job gone wrong. Next to me, a young couple.

The man looks at her and asks, “How was your day?” while stroking her hair. I quickly look away — but still blush, as if the question was for me.

She starts rambling about how she missed a hairdressing job because the client brought dirty hair, then complains about her lecturer’s endless class. He listens, nodding, asking more questions in between.

So, “How are you?”

And there I go, answering in my head, as if he were talking to me.

She sighs, “I am fine. No, I am not fine,” and launches into everything that went wrong today.

Must be nice.

I stop listening, lost in my thoughts, mostly regretting not buying more packs of kilishi. This one tastes like heaven.

At my stop now, I stroll back to my father’s green-roofed bungalow, thinking about everything I ate and wondering why I have such a terrible appetite.

“You’re not eating. See your neck,” my eldest sister told me a few weeks ago.

I also, for the umpteenth time, think about the karate moves I will be forced to pull if someone jumps out from these bushes and tries to rob me — or worse.

Home at last. I collapse into the scattered bed my nephew left for me, thinking about how much I’ll miss this half-pink, half-white room when I stop coming back to it after long days. I’ll miss my small town too — but the parting is long overdue.

I decide to rewatch Meet the Robinsons because now, I’m old enough to appreciate the humor and the lessons. Like, “Keep moving forward,” because really — what can you gain from stagnation?