Disclaimer: This is a weak ass love story.
On a rainy Lagos morning, conductors shouting, passengers moaning
Amidst the ruckus and slight pandemonium my mind wandered over to you.
The easy way words rolled over your tongue, the juicy stories of Lagos Island you told in the morning.
Lafiaji to Sura, Lewis Street to the ends of Simpson your stories of fun and untapped talents that got me wondering.
Obalende wa o! I exclaimed, noting that memories of you will not protect me from the conductor’s wrath.
Barely slowing down, I was motioned off the square box, threatening to fall apart.
You, Emory had me in wanderlust right here in the middle of Eko Akete.
This Ekiti girl, for a minute did not care if she was in the right keke.
Lafiaji, the sign post read, reminding me of our bond and the signs I ignored.
Like one under water, I opened my mouth, fearlessly I drowned, ignoring judgement and reason.
I am way past questions and speculations; every word was a lie.
And Lafiaji is nothing but a place in Lagos Island with nothing whimsical, just figments of my imagination waxing magical.