Psych Ward Diaries. Addendum 1.

The past few weeks have been pretty chill.

I got this serviced apartment here at Victoria Island Lagos, to stay for a bit.

I do not earn a monthly salary. Every now and then money comes into my life somehow, and then I’m responsible for staying alive and well until the next financial inflow.

I initially paid for a week or so. I don’t have enough money to pay for a longer stretch of time at once. Maybe I might if I put my mind to it, but I’m still raw from my last attempt at trying to rent a space nearby. At Lekki Phase 1.

I paid N400,000 into the bank account of the real estate agent. The “Mr Olu” who walked me into the compound, greeted the security guard, opened the doors to the apartment, and showed me around.

N400,000 was supposed to be rent for a year. Or six months I think. I’m not sure now.

That was last year. I never got to move into the apartment. I never saw “Mr Olu the real estate agent” again. I later realized that the email address with which he corresponded with me, was different from that on the agency banner hung out on the building’s front gate.

Say the banner of the actual real estate agency had the email “”. This guy’s email was “”.

The second email has two “g”s.

I knew his email address was weird, but I assumed it was because the intended one was already taken. That can definitely happen with email addresses.

So I thought he was just making do with an address which was lexically similar. What I did not notice at the time, was that the email on the actual agency banner did not have that anomaly.

I mean, it’s not like you scrunch up your nose to scrutinize every letter in the email address on some banner outside the building where you intend to rent a space.

All of that was last year.

I went to the bank to make a complaint. They said they would freeze the recipient account, and that the fraudulent guy wouldn’t be able to withdraw the funds.

That was good to hear. They said to recover the money I would need to contact the Police. The Police had the authority to request a reversal of the funds transfer.

I stopped by the Police station to narrate my ordeal. At some point they said there was a special department that dealt with digital fraud and stuff. Said I would have to pay about N200,000 for a start, to access the services of this department.


I was trying to recover N400,000. To do that, I had to pay the Police N200,000.

For a start.


I took some time to weigh my annoyance. Was I angry enough at Mr Olu to undertake such expenses even if they could eventually add up to, or even exceed the amount I was trying to recover?

Hmm. I didn’t think so.

In all it was a very confusing experience.

It all felt so legit. I’m still not sure if I was intentionally dispossessed of the funds, or if there was some sort of a misunderstanding.

Like, there was another guy- some like, seventy year old man I spoke with on the phone.

He said he was the owner of the house. The Landlord. Mr Olu was just the agent. Helping him get new tenants. The “landlord” was asking me questions like:

“Hope pe iwo o kin p’ariwo ninu ile? Awa o like ariwo o.”

“I hope you don’t make noise where you stay? We don’t like noise makers here o.”

Like, how can a seventy something year old man who asks such questions, and who sometimes doesn’t answer my calls because he says he’s in the mosque, not be legit? How?

I don’t understand. I honestly don’t.

At some point I called the numbers on the actual real estate banner. Some guy responded on the other end. Said he was the one the agency was named after. That he was Mr Olu. The real Mr Olu.

I told him someone was impersonating him. I spent some time expressing my frustration and annoyance on the phone. He said all that was difficult to believe, because I was the first person to make such a complaint. Sensible point. But not at all placating for me.

Honestly it was this whole annoying episode. I’ve just had to take my mind off it, and pay attention to more inspiring and encouraging things.

Mr Olu. Has his office on Lagos Mainland. At Palmgrove. Talking to me and showing me around the apartment like a responsible human being. Fraudulent motherfucker.

It was to my utmost shock, that the security guard said he didn’t really know the fake Mr Olu. Said he was just some guy walking by the house, who proposed to show some prospective tenants around.

The fact that he had access to the building and keys to the apartment gave me the impression he was undoubtedly legit. Legit to the point that I thought he would feel insulted if I asked too many questions.


“Mr Olu”.

I’ve been trying to buy a motorbike. A cool dual-terrain kinda bike. I’m looking forward to some off-roading soon.

I found this guy on is like the Nigerian EBay. He had a cool Scrambler for sale. I liked it. He was located in Abuja, the country’s capital.

While I made preparations to send him the funds for the purchase and delivery of the bike, he was telling me stuff like “Don’t worry, there’s no problem. I’m a family man.” to increase my confidence in him.

Family man.

Mister Olu was very likely a family man too.

Bruh, I’ve been swindled by family men, don’t even go there. Don’t even try that line on me Mister Man.

My N400,000 from last year is still nowhere to be found.

It recently occurred to me to call Mr Dayo.

Mr Dayo from the Psych Ward. The fellow inpatient.

The sixty year old ex-hockey coach.

The last time I saw him, I was at the hospital for a post-hospitalization checkup. So the doctors could see if I was properly recovering from a mental illness I never had in the first place.

Mr Dayo was sitting on a chair in the walkway. Looking very relaxed. We spoke for a bit. He seemed very comfortable and chill. I had collected his phone number earlier. I said I was going to call him later, after he had been discharged.

That was close to two years ago.

I haven’t exactly been in the frame of mind to make the call. I’ve been dealing with struggles of my own:

So, post-hospitalisation, my parents enrolled me in a university.

It’s this university that’s owned by this pretty prominent church in Nigeria. The church’s ideology is principally based on concepts like deliverance from demonic oppression and the breaking of ancestral curses and the holy murder of destiny-devouring witches and other such esoteric phenomena.

The university was founded by, and is managed by the church.

At 5AM every morning all of the students gather in the chapel to cast and bind some demons real quick before commencing the day. Repeated failure to report at the chapel could get you suspended.

On average, students spend about 2+ hours everyday collectively binding and casting out demonic powers.

And that is just the very tip of my disconcertion iceberg with regard to that university.

I would never in my right senses have agreed to be enrolled there. But I was fresh out of Psych Ward. Fresh out of 3-months of daily antipsychotics, and full of daily-reinforced doubt in my decision-making abilities:

I obviously didn’t know what I was doing with my life. Everyone obviously knew what what was good for me. Everyone except for me myself.

A couple months after being discharged from the Psych Ward, I ditched my supply of antipsychotics and lost all of the Psych-Ward weight. I gradually became more and more certain that the entire Psych Ward thing was Bullshit. And I became angry at everyone who made it or let it, happen.

I’m going to call Mr Dayo today.

I’m chilling in this alright apartment at Victoria Island. I have no serious doubts with regard to my sanity or mental wellbeing, and I’m plotting some schemes to enable me discontinue my enrolment at that soul-eroding university.

Life is good.

I call Mr Dayo’s number.

The phone rings for a bit.

Someone answers. It is a woman’s voice.


This post is one in a Series. Feel free to view the other pieces here.

Image: On the balcony of a room at the Prest Waterfront Hotel, Lekki Phase 1, Lagos.

Lagos: On Dating Apps and Strip Clubs. 1.

I’m in conversation with the doctor.

She just said something I find counter-intuitive.

She said at any given point in time, female sex-workers are less likely than women in general to have sexually transmitted infections.




Well first it depends on the place.

I’m in a clinic on Victoria Island (VI). Victoria Island is one of the more affluent parts of Lagos. Sex workers here would generally be in association with a more affluent and health-conscious clientele. And consequently I imagine their employer would ensure they underwent medical checks on a frequent basis.

And so first I think her perspective varies by location. I’ve spent time in different parts of Lagos and so I’m somewhat aware of how different things can be. Take Obalende for example.

Second, I disagree with her choice of words.

Her words were “They are cleaner than the general woman you come across on the street”.

I don’t know about “cleaner”.

I don’t see how someone who has sex with other people for purely financial reasons, is cleaner than someone who doesn’t. I don’t see how that works.

But I definitely see the logic in her thinking.

I first visited this clinic a few weeks ago. I had some things I felt I needed to discuss with a healthcare professional.

I was in VI for the weekend.

There’s this interesting DJ guy (I think. I don’t know who exactly is behind it), who throws really cool parties I like to come around for. Pretty frequently they fly in DJs from other countries to perform. I think it was a few weeks ago they flew in Hanna Hais from Paris. It was fun.

I’m not sure who exactly is behind the Instagram page that announces new parties, but whoever it is definitely has considerable international exposure. People generally seem to be aware of this, because there’s usually a substantial expatriate presence at the parties.

The events are cool, and the prices are fine. Nothing like the usual overpriced bougie Victoria Island events. I get annoyed by a lot of them because they’re so much about spending money and exhibiting financial capability, than they are about genuine interactions with other people.

Lagos can get very annoying. You can spend an entire week going out every night in Victoria Island and still not feel like you’ve really met anyone. I think it’s partly because at events in Lagos people generally keep to themselves a lot:

They go out with people they know.

When they’re out, they talk almost entirely with those people they went out with.

And when they leave, they leave with the people they came with.

Lagos makes me miss cities I’ve lived where people frequently go out with the primary intention of meeting new people.

The only people I know in Lagos who regularly do this, are the women who go out for parties and stuff, with plans to meet guys who will pay them for sex.

Like seriously. And it’s normal. Like, very normal. That’s just the normal thing. It even has a name.

See, let’s not even go there yet. Let’s still talk about some other stuff.

I got a ride from the hotel where I spent the night, to the clinic- all the while wincing about the inflation that came along with the COVID-19 pandemic. Everything is more expensive. The places I stay whenever I’m in VI, are now about 50% more expensive than they used to be. Hotel prices have gone up, and I’ve quickly realised that my personal surveys on the cost-effectiveness of different hotels around VI are now outdated. A lot of things are different now.

I got to the clinic like Okay I’d like to speak with the doctor.

The clinic is actually very visually appealing. Medicenter. I found it via a Google search. A considerable amount of effort went into the aesthetic of the place.

Got a brief glimpse of CNN on the TV in the waiting room. Something about Lebron James getting the COVID vaccine. I spent some time wondering why that was on (inter)national TV.

The receptionist was like Okay sir you’ll need to pay the fee for somethingsomethingsomething.

Which is twenty thousand Naira.

Sorry what?

Hehehehee!!!! Wetin happen? What is the problem??!!

In my head I was thinking: What is this person saying?

Just to see the doctor? I’m not sick o. I didn’t come here with a heart attack. I’m fine– I just need to talk with a healthcare professional.

For some sort of a reference, twenty thousand Naira is like the cost of eight very solid meals. Say we label meals in any city from 1 to 5 based on price. 1 is a meal from like a roadside stall or a food truck, and 5 is the priciest of the priciest. Then by eight solid meals I mean eight meals which are a very good 3. And so depending on how frequently you eat out, that could be the amount you spend eating out in say a week if you eat out everyday or a couple weeks if you don’t.

People generally convert into dollars and go Oh X Naira is equivalent to Y dollars or so. I feel conversions like that are misleading because they do not take into account the purchasing power of the concerned amount of money, and how that varies with location. So whenever I hear stuff like “Soso people (whose primary legal tender is not denominated in USD) live on X dollars a day”, I’m like Jesus Why. Why.

I had some back and forths with the receptionist, and then at some point she said I should come talk with the manager of the place.

She took me into a different room. The manager was this dark-skinned thickset woman pointing out some things on a MacBook Pro screen to someone who looked like a young nurse.

The receptionist introduced me. And then the manager and I began to exchange words.

I explained that I just intended to talk with the doctor and ask some questions.

Usually with a hospital in Lagos, any sort of visit requires that some you have some sort of membership account. With a first-time visit you’ll need to have this account created, and this usually comes with a fee.

I was aware of this, however I was really just at the hospital for information. I wasn’t about to begin a treatment routine or anything, I was just there to talk with a doctor. And so it was pretty unsettling to think I would have to pay for the full package. I asked questions to know if there was a way around it somehow, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

I liked the way she spoke though-

So, I enjoy learning new words, I enjoy using new words, and I enjoy hearing people use interesting words.

The manager (she herself a doctor) and I exchanged some interesting words, and then at some point I thought Ah to hell with it. I’ll just pay this money and keep moving forward with life.

That was the first time I visited.

That was a few weeks ago.

I got here this morning and told the receptionist I intended to see the doctor for a follow-up on the initial appointment.

Got another glimpse of CNN in the waiting room.

The receptionist was like Okay sir you’ll need to pay the fee for somethingsomethingsomething.

Which is Sososo thousand Naira.


What do you mean?!

I didn’t really register the amount she mentioned. I just registered the range. It was not too different from the amount I paid the first time. It might have even been the same thing.

For a follow-up?

The receptionist and I began to debate.

At some point she said I could discuss with her manager.

Manager wasn’t on seat so I had to give her a call.

We began to discuss.

Yes, hello?

Oh Yes Hello! Yes!

I began to explain the situation.

At some point we began to exchange words.

You this woman. You’ve come again. With your voice and your English. All you Doctor people. Leveraging my anxiety and my need to hear pertinent reassuring words from a healthcare professional. Leveraging that to empty my bank account.

Where is the money?! Where is it?!

We debated a bit more.

At some point she went, Alright don’t worry you can go see the doctor. I’m going to let this one slide.

Yeah that’s right you Manager Doctor woman. You’d better let it slide.

I’m in conversation with the doctor.

She just said something I find counter-intuitive.

This piece is one in a Series. A list of all of the pieces in this Series can be accessed here.

Image: A My Coffee shop at Victoria Island.

Psych Ward Diaries. 03.

I am seated on the short concrete demarcation surrounding the circular space with the table-tennis setup.

It is an average morning. Okay, maybe not so average. I think it’s leaning a little more towards the not-so-good kind of morning.

I just had a jog.

I feel better whenever I go for jogs around the lawn. I feel stimulated. It feels good.

I am getting fat.

I hate it.

All I do in this place is eat and sleep.

Eat and sleep.


and sleep.

I can feel my cheeks beginning to droop and form jowls on the sides of my face.

My jogs are even beginning to feel weird. My limbs feel blubbery.

Sometimes I look at the grass as I run. These days it moves so slowly- the grass.

The damp green blades stream by so slowly beneath my feet, as I huff through one belaboured stride after another.

These days I go like two laps around the lawn, and I get tired. Sometimes I’m barely able to do just one. One lap.

One lap.

It’s about two hundred and fifty metres around this lawn. And sometimes I’m scarcely able to complete just that.

There’s also not really much of a point- it’s not like jogging is going to make me lose any actual weight. I eat too much and move about too little.

They just keep bringing the food.




It just keeps coming.

And you’ve got to eat- you’ve got to. It’ll be a-whole-nother “There’s an issue with a patient” episode if you begin to refuse the food.

And so you just keep eating. This place makes eating feel like work.

Jesus what do you mean it’s time for lunch already. Is that another meal you guys are bringing, Christ.

Mister Dayo recently got pissed. I had never seen him pissed before.

He was angry at the girl who works in the kitchen.

The one who brings our food most of the time.

The one who makes really interesting noodles.

The one Andrew’s friend is always flirting with.

I was in the kitchen a few days ago.

It felt like an excursion.

Ah, pots!

Fire! Oh my God, look at the flames!

Sacks of food! Oh man!

Oh so this is what the table-tennis setup looks like from here, wow!

Hm I think you guys need a TV in here, what do you do all day apart from make food and chat?

Mister Dayo was pissed at the interesting-noodles girl.

Something about respect. And about how he would not be treated in a disrespectful manner, by someone years younger than his youngest child- something like that.

I had never seen Mister Dayo pissed before.

Usually he’s calm and chill- sometimes he’s even funny.

Like when The Rock got shot in I think the abdomen. In some movie with a giant albino gorilla.

The Rock was like “Don’t worry I’m fine. It missed my vital organs”.

Shot in the abdomen like that missed all your vital organs.

Mister Dayo with a sneer was like:

“Nitori pe itan ni gbogbo vital organ e wa abi?”

“Because all of his vital organs are in his thighs right?”

Hahaha. I found that funny. We generally found that funny.

But now, he’s beginning to get pissed.

Mister Dayo, he’s getting pissed now.

Everybody is frustrated.

I am very frustrated. I am extremely frustrated.

This place needs a treadmill. And water heaters for warm showers.

Everything is bad. Everything is very bad.

A security guy walks by.

He’s playing a song that sounds very interesting, but does not sound like anything I’ve ever heard before.

I call him over and ask for a look at his music.

He gives me his BlackBerry.

I haven’t held a smartphone in like a month. Probably more.

It feels strange holding one in my hand.

That is not the only thing that feels strange.

I am holding a BlackBerry.

The last time I saw a BlackBerry was probably like three or four years ago. BlackBerry was the rave then. The BBM pin was the coolest thing to have.

I’m surprised some people still use BlackBerries. I am surprised, I’m very surprised.

And now I’m holding this anachronistic device in my palm, and listening to a song from a different planet.

The outside world is a different planet right now. The outside world is a completely different planet.

Reekado Banks.

That’s the name of the lead singer.

I’ve never heard the name before- I don’t think so.

Reekado Banks.

I’m here in Nigeria after some years away, and these days I get startled by the strangest things.

Like the new One Hundred Naira Note.

I was laughing and jumping by the side of the road that day, trying to make sense of the strange purple-ish piece of paper the roadside seller handed me.

Wait, what is this? Hahaha what???

Why is it purple?? Is this a joke, what???

The roadside seller kept looking at me, completely unexcited- wondering what my problem was.

I didn’t bother much with her stare. I still took some time to laugh and jump about some more.

Wait the Hundred Naira note is blue now? Hahaha it looks so funny haha!!

When did this happen? When was this strange coloured piece of paper designated as actual legal tender, what? haha

I’ve been talking with Uchenna.

Uchenna is a new roommate.

He was checked in by his elder brother.

He has like one pyjamas that he wears like everyday. Like every motherfucking day.

The chief Psychiatrist was making fun of me a while back. Said I was always wearing the same AC Milan jersey.

You, you are always wearing this same jersey. All the time. Every time we have a session this is what you’re wearing.

I didn’t even have the psychological slack to take him seriously.

Oh really. I should be wearing a different outfit every day.


In a psychiatric hospital.

I should be changing my clothes multiple times a day.

Because I’m on the runway.

Because I’m here to model.

Because I’m at the London Expo, that’s why.

Or because I’m here to impress you. You this nonsense doctor guy that does not want to discharge me from this godforsaken place.

You better leave me alone you this guy. You better leave me alone. What I want to hear now is that I’ve been discharged. That I’m free to leave this immensely dispiriting environment. I do not have the time for any of this sartorial bullshit.

But of course I made some modifications after that.

These guys. Next thing you know the Psychiatrist is scribbling in his notebook:

He wears the same clothes all the time.

This is a symptom of blahblahblah syndrome. He now percieves himself to exist in a reality where the Electromagnetic spectrum is constantly in flux. He believes the frequency correspondence of the constituent colours in the visible light spectrum, is randomly shuffled as light travels from his clothes into the eyes of observers.

Consequently he thinks the perceived colours of his AC Milan jersey are constantly changing, and so no one will ever know that he is wearing the same shirt every day.

He is delusional. He suffers from a chronic case of optical delusion.

His dosage of anti-psychotics should be doubled. His stay here should be extended by four months.

Psychiatrist says you should wear new clothes, you wear new clothes. I’m not in the mood for any extra-time.

That was about my own clothes.

But now, seeing Uchenna wearing the same pyjamas every day is beginning to get on my own nerves.

The pyjamas aren’t dirty- he keeps them clean somehow, I don’t know how.

But seeing him wearing the exact same thing everyday is actually annoying.

Maybe this was what the Psychiatrist guy was feeling.

There are no mirrors here. I’m not really looking at my own clothes, and so my physical appearance doesn’t bother me. But other people’s clothes do.


It’s strange.

Uchenna spent some time in jail.

We were talking about it a few nights ago.

He spent a number of years I think. Maybe two. Or a little more.

There was some sort of a dispute. Some guy reported them to the Police.

His description of the involved events didn’t feel very clear to me.

I myself could not discern if he was innocent or guilty.

He ended up being put in custody- he and some other guy. Some alleged accomplice.

They spent years in jail, awaiting trial.

Awaiting trial. Two years awaiting trial.

Two years. And he said his case was not unusual at all. People spent even more years in that situation.

The Nigerian justice system is just strange.

Nigeria generally is just preposterous.

Uchenna just walked over.

There’s a way he walks, favouring one leg. I don’t know why he walks that way, but it’s kinda cool- kinda.

I think he’s up for some table tennis.

I myself am up.

I stand to my feet and head towards the table.

We each pick up a bat.

Let’s get the blood pumping this morning.

Image: Sampling some dope noodles in Surulere, Lagos.

Psych Ward Diaries. 01.

The first episode of this series is available here: Psych Ward Diaries. 00.

“I like Yemi a lot. I feel like we are going to be lifetime friends.”

I feel betrayed.

Andrew has just betrayed me.

Yemi is the guy with the sleeve tattoos.

Andrew is another guy.

He was brought in a number of days ago. Sedated as usual, arms hanging limply by his sides as the nurses carried his unconscious body into the ward.

I liked his boots. They looked kinda goth-ey. Had some small metal spike-looking things on them. I thought they were cool.

They brought him into the room where I was staying.

Cool, now all I have to do is wait for the guy with cool boots to wake up, so we can chat.

“….because am a separatist….”


This guy has just dropped a word.


I am talking with Andrew. He recently woke up.

As we keep chatting, I infer that “separatist” is along the same lines as “subversive” and stuff.


We keep talking.

He used to work for Chevron.

Nigeria’s GDP is predominantly a function of crude oil exports. This means people who work in Oil companies are a huge deal.

In my final year of high school, there was a lot of hype about studying Petrochemical Engineering. It appeared to be a straightforward path to working at an Oil Company, and getting paid a desirably overwhelming monthly salary.

And so of course I’m interested in talking with this guy who used to work at Chevron. I want to know what life is like for these Oil Company people.

I mean- I recently spent some time living in Silicon Valley, so Oil company salaries probably do not seem as obscene to me as they did when I was in high school. Regardless I’m curious to know what the Oil company life is like.

We keep talking.

He says at some point there was some sort of an issue in the organisation. No one else seemed to be bothered by it, so he flew to the international headquarters to notify the officials there.


We keep talking.

He says there was this day he felt led in his spirit to give out his MacBook. He walked into a park and dropped a bag containing his wiped computer along with the charger, on a bench. Said it would be a blessing to whoever came across it that day.


I am feeling this guy.

We keep talking.

Every once in a while we touch on a topic that makes us laugh and get very excited. Excitement is a very rare and precious feeling when you’re in a psychiatric facility with nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I attempt to keep mental bookmarks of these topics we find mutually exciting. So we can revisit them later when we feel like having a laugh. Like in-between-flight layovers and the different ways of ingesting crack and Lombard street in San Francisco.

Andrew has just betrayed me.

Yesterday we chatted until pretty late in the night.

He told me about how he quit his pretty well-paying job at Chevron to embark on an entrepreneurial venture. Says his severance package was immense. Says he has no idea when he’s ever going to finish spending the money.

Says he has just been living on the interest for the past year. The actual funds are untouched.


I need some money to fuel an AI endeavour I have been working on for a while. I’m thinking maybe I could pitch the idea to him at some point. Financial support is needed. Financial support is very needed.

He told me about his meeting with Robert Kiyosaki. The “Rich Dad Poor Dad” guy.

Hmm. I remember reading the book some months after finishing high school. I later heard the guy went bankrupt.

I ask Andrew what he thought of that. How that affects the veracity of his perspectives on wealth acquisition.

Andrew essentially says the disparity between Kiyosaki’s experienced financial-statuses gives him breadth of perspective, which makes his insights more valuable than those of someone who has known only success.


This guy. This Andrew guy.

We keep talking.

He talks about his experience under Kiyosaki’s mentorship.

He was provided with guidance on some E-Commerce endeavours.

He purchased Callus Removers from, and forwarded them to some sort of storage space he procured in the USA.

The storage space served as a warehouse from which he delivered to customers ordering for his Callus Removers on Amazon.

The price difference between the Callus removers on Amazon and on AliBaba, was very significant. He was making steady, substantial profit.

He told me about how when the money began flowing into his account, he began to smile and sing appreciative songs of praise to his Almighty God, because life was taking an interesting turn.

Hmm. I keep listening.

We talk about his young daughter, and his floundering marriage. There are talks of divorce. He is sad and conflicted and worried. Does not know how all of it will turn out. Sometimes he seems certain divorce is the best mutual decision. At other times he’s not so sure.

Andrew has just betrayed me.

He met Yemi this morning. Yemi- the tattoo guy.

They had a brief chat over table tennis.

He just came back into the room to communicate his excitement to me.

“I like Yemi a lot. I feel like we are going to be lifetime friends.”

Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ, Andrew.

You just talked with him for like ten minutes.

Ten minutes! Ten minutes Andrew!

We’ve been talking for days now!

What about all of our late night discussions and hearty laughter?

What of our mutual excitement over the different methods of crack ingestion?

What of Lombard street in San Francisco!

Jesus Christ, I thought we were close?!

I thought we had a special bond?

Now you go talk with this guy, for ten minutes, and all of a sudden you want to be lifetime friends with him?

Lifetime friends?

Jesus Christ Andrew, Jesus Christ.

You’ve never given me a personal compliment anywhere close to being that nice!

Lifetime friends?!

My God.

My God, Andrew, My God.

Andrew has just betrayed me.

Psych Ward Diaries. 00.

They just brought in a guy.

He is sedated. Arms hanging limply by his side as the nurses carry him along the corridor. He has very interesting-looking half-sleeve tattoos on both arms.

I am excited. I am very very excited. I cannot wait for him to wake up. I am really looking forward to chatting about his tattoos.

This Emeka guy is extremely annoying. He has been shouting since morning, banging on the door and calling out to Mister Austin at the very top of his voice.

No wonder he’s in solitary confinement. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I think so. I mean, it doesn’t look anything as dreary and gaolish and bleak and soul-crushing as I would have expected. It just looks like a locked room with an ornate metal door in a building with bright yellow walls. The environment doesn’t have the air of anything resembling solitary confinement. Emeka’s incessant shouting and banging on the door, are what give it away.

Not like I’m expected to understand his situation. I’m not the one in a locked room.

Mister Austin seems like a cool guy. He just completed his PhD at a foreign-affiliated Open University. He studied Theology. We’ve been talking about his Doctoral thesis. I’ve been learning stuff from him.


I had never heard that word before.

He says he plans to set up a Theology school. Says this Nursing gig is just to get by while things fall in place. With the PhD out of the way, he feels confident about clearing any third-party doubts on academic proficiency or experience.

I think he’s a cool guy.

His chin has some bumps on it. Shaving bumps. I don’t like those bumps. But pretty much everyone I know- every black guy I know personally, has these facial hair bumps. I hate them. I never want to have them. I haven’t begun to grow any serious facial hair yet- hopefully it’s possible to figure out a way to circumvent this dermal catastrophe.

There’s this guy though, this actor. This funny Hollywood actor. He has a full beard, yet his face is completely smooth when he shaves. I don’t know, hopefully I’ll get to meet him sometime and ask for some secret shaving tips.

I’ve been playing table tennis all day. There’s nothing else to do in this place. Just table tennis. But it’s fun though. It’s fun. I’m gradually getting better at it. Rotimi is very good. Rotimi the tall, light-skinned nurse. I don’t think I’ll ever win a game against him. I have no idea how Kelechi does it. I have absolutely no idea.

Ah oh yeah there are the medical journals in the library/art room place. That’s something to do, apart from playing table tennis.

What’s the name of the journals again, “The BMJ” or something like that. I’ve been reading those. Medicine is actually not so bad. Some of the research papers in the journals are actually really interesting. Interesting papers, and then in each journal a doctor gets featured in an interview. Getting to read about doctors in the UK and their lives is pretty fun too.

At some point I ran out of medical journals to read. I told the psychologist during a session.

The psychologist is a nonsense guy, I don’t like him. He overestimates his understanding of my situation, my life and my decisions. Trust Nigerian people to feel like Overlords over what is not so much of a big deal.

Trying to “correct” me and tell me “the right thing to do”.

Nonsense. I think he’s too pushy. The psychologists I visited in the US mostly just listened. Although to be honest I kinda wondered why sitting down in a chair and just listening should be a full-time job.

Like hey I should be capable of this too, it shouldn’t be so complicated.

The psychologist was surprised I had been reading the journals in the first place. He said they weren’t for me- weren’t for patients. Said they were for the doctors in the facility to read.

Oh. Ohhhh.

When it gets dark, the nurses call everyone in and they lock the main door. So no one leaves the building, evidently.

Like we’re in daycare.

Oh God.

Then I have to sit down in the common room and watch TV.

Oh wait. Waaaiiittttt. I think the tattoo guy is up. I think the tattoo guy is upppp!!

He just walked into the common room. I’m not even in the mood to let him properly recover from the sedative and make adequate sense of his surroundings.

I excitedly head over for a chat.

Image Credits:

Detainment at Abeokuta. Part 2.

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

Olorun lo yo e pe o o try lati salo. A o ba ti yin ibon si e lese!!

You were fortunate you didn’t try to run away. We would have shot you in the legs!!

Osama is speaking, as I am being bound in some pretty thick-looking ropes.

I have been explaining that I came to Abeokuta to check out some tourist attractions. I intended to spend the night in the hotel next door, but decided against it given that my bank account balance was just a little higher than the cost of staying a night.

I spent the past year and a few months living in a country where I was free to spend nights out camping or just chilling in the open expanse of unoccupied desert that generally stretched across the entire archipelago.

I have been in Nigeria a number of weeks, after close to three years of living in three different countries, each on a different continent. Now I’m sitting here on the floor while my hands and feet are being bound by a duo of night watchmen, one of whom is named after an ex-FBI most wanted terrorist. I am gradually coming to a realization that open idle expanses of land and vegetation are not viewed with the same idyllic innocuousness that I personally grew used to seeing them while in Cape Verde.

Here, some ambiguous being lying down on a pile of gravel in an empty parcel of land- in the dark, is not some post-clubbing guy chilling in the night’s air and looking at the stars- what fucking stars. He is a thief, employing darkness-induced anonymity to actualize his dastardly thieving intentions. As a matter of fact he is one of the reprehensible thieves who stole the tires of a neighbouring truck last week. He should be shot in the legs if he tries to run away, and he should be bound in thick ropes by Osama Bin Laden.

There are three entities surrounding me right now. One is Osama. The other is the second watchman. The third stands further back, silent. An unspeaking silhouette. A mute menacing shadow whose name is Reverse Culture Shock.

It is morning.

The ropes have been loosened. Osama interrogates me some more under the newly-arrived light of day. He seems much less suspicious of my story now. I think I don’t look so much like the typical Abeokuta thief.

I am in an acrid mood.

This Abeokuta is a horrible place. Nobody dances in their clubs. Everyone just sits down and drinks beer and looks very composed. Like they are at a job interview. I wonder why you would go to a club and just sit down and look very serious and composed and judgmental. You might as well have just spent the night at your place of work.

I skimmed through about four different clubs last night before I found one that was somewhat amenable to dancing. At the penultimate one I checked, some guy threatened to punch me in the face when I asked for a puff of what he was smoking.

I was like, Okay I am in the wrong place. I am in the motherfucking wrong place and I need to get out of here ASAP.

All of these Nigerian people are just so angry, I have absolutely no idea why.

Some guy chatted me up while I was leaving the last club. Said he loved my dance moves. I expressed appreciation at the compliment. He said I must be very happy. And then said for me to be that happy, I must have a lot of money. Then he asked if I could give him some money.

He didn’t really look like someone who was in need of money to solve fundamental life problems or anything. He didn’t look malnourished or without a place to stay or anything. He looked like someone who was pretty okay, but was in search of more. More money.

Ugh. These people and money.

Now I’m here, trying to make sense of last night. Bound with ropes and verbally accosted and threatened by a very fulfilled Osama Bin Laden throughout the night.

What sort of a place is this?

I am in a very acrid mood.

Osama says I need to call someone. Someone to come vouch for me. Says my father is alright.

Oh God. My father and I have just had a very turbulent year. Some very intense disagreements on life direction. I do not want to bring him into this. Ah Christ.

But Osama has spoken. I make the call. Now my father will have to travel all the way down to the state capital this early morning to facilitate a resolution of this issue. Ah Christ.

Osama senses the pungent displeasure in my mood. Says I should go get some food to eat. Points me in the direction of a woman selling some freshly made rice and beans and spaghetti and stuff. Usual Southwestern Nigeria roadside breakfast combo.

I am not in a mood for food right now. Recent experiences have been extremely unpleasant. I let Osama know I am not in a mood for food. He says I should get the hell up and go eat something.

Again Osama has spoken.

I am eating breakfast.

Rice and beans and spaghetti, with the usual scintillating tomato sauce and some animal protein.

The food is very good. These roadside sellers are generally very reliable with regard to some serious stimulation of the taste-buds.

I am munching on the food. I can feel my mood getting better very quickly. I don’t like it. I want to keep being annoyed and I want to make Osama feel extremely guilty for putting me through this very annoying experience when I committed no actual crime.

I keep eating. Enjoying the food, while being annoyed at how quickly it is ridding me of my acrimonious annoyance and concentrated displeasure.

I am back with Osama.

He just bought some traditional alcoholic bitters from a roadside peddler. I say I’d like to try some bitters. He advices me not to. Says the smell is very strong and my father will perceive it the moment he sees me. Says my father will know I’ve been drinking questionable alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning. Says he himself is circumspect with the drink whenever his parents are coming around.

I am surprised. I am very surprised.

From hearing Osama exchanging morning pleasantries with some neighbouring traders, I know he has a wife. A wife and two children.

Osama. Osama Bin Laden. FBI Most Wanted Terrorist. Hiding his alcoholic predilections from his parents. Okay. Very unexpected. Very very unexpected.

I thought adults could do whatever they wanted, regardless of their parents’ perspective on acceptable behaviour. I thought a man with a wife and two children could drink strong-smelling alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning if he wanted to, and not have to worry about what his Dad and Mum would say.

I am surprised. I am very surprised. Apparently this whole adult thing is a bit different from what I thought it was.

I keep pondering this astounding observation, while contemplating the complications of my own situation.

Osama is happily sipping on his strong-smelling traditional alcoholic bitters.

Image: A different part of the state, but still generally consistent with the environmental appearance of the more rustic parts of Abeokuta.

Now Playing:

Cachupa is Very Filling.

I am walking down the street.

There is a problem- there is an immensely disconcerting problem on my mind.

I am visibly grappling with this problem. I am talking to myself. My arms are moving about as I walk.

My hair is extremely rough. The red dye is beginning to fade. It’s probably due for some retouching.

There is a problem.

It is a foundational conundrum which I believe to have very far-reaching implications on the general domain of Statistical Learning :

It is an issue involving statistical learning models and what I believe to be an unfounded presupposition of input variable completeness.

I look extremely unkempt.

I look like I just emerged from weeks of living alone in the desert with wild animals.

And that is actually true. All except the wild animals part. I really did recently emerge from living alone in the desert.

For some reason there are like no animals in the wild on this island- at least I haven’t come across any. For some strange reason.

Someone is laughing at me. He’s in the grocery store by the left.

It’s Meky. I can tell from his voice.

I’m angry at him for mocking me.

Of course I’m not entirely sure, but I believe I’m the one he’s laughing at. I feel sad about being laughed at, but at the same time I somewhat understand. If I was in his shoes I’d probably laugh at myself too.

Walking about the island like an insane person, with no definite purpose. Wonder why he won’t just get a job. Always having sand in his hair. Talking aloud to himself. Fighting against problems nobody can see. Getting arrested every once in a while. He has a computer that is probably worth a few thousand dollars, but he has neither money nor food to eat. Strange guy. Very very strange guy.

Yeah, I’d most likely laugh at myself too.

Meky is cool though. We met in a restaurant at Espargos earlier in the year. I was there for some breakfast. I still had some money left from the hundred dollars I landed in the country with. That morning he introduced me to Cachupa- Cape Verde’s flagship meal.

It’s very filling.


It was indeed pretty filling.

I like Meky. He’s very tall. Tall and burly. He is like a wall. Like a smiling, brown-skinned wall. I like him.

But he’s pissing me off this afternoon- Why is he laughing at me?

I don’t have time for him and his painful derision right now- I have an illegitimate statistical learning presupposition to worry about.

I need to pay him back his money soon. I’ll feel comfortable enough to really dish him a piece of my mind then.

It’s difficult to properly express annoyance at someone when you’re owing them money. You can’t really say the things you want to say, how you want to say them.

Don’t worry Mister Meky. Wait till I pay you back your fifty euros. Then you’ll know what’s going on.

I needed some money that day. I needed to open a Cape Verdean bank account, and a deposit was required by the bank.

I had recently reconnected with an NGO in Nigeria, and we had just vivified a monthly financial agreement which was hibernated by my travel to the USA for studies a few years earlier.

My Bank of America account was unusable because my balance there was a very negative number.

I had a Nigerian bank account. In fact, I had some money in it. It was to my inestimable dismay however, that I learnt the Central Bank of Nigeria had banned the use of debit cards outside the country- in a bid to somehow prevent a further devaluation of their currency.

And so the little money in that account had been transformed into a sequence of meaningless numbers which could not rescue me from the hunger and general pecuniary anguish I was experiencing.

Oh God, these Nigerian people have struck again. They want me to die in this place.

Meky owns a grocery store.

A grocery store is like heaven when you’re hungry to the core, and you’re like friends with the owner.

He helped me with some direly needed food. He wrote me a cheque for fifty euros after holding on to my GoPro and tripod and other recording gear as collateral.

This is not a GoPro.

He looked at me, with a smirk on his face.

Ah, Meky. GoPro. Chinese GoPro clone. Whatever. Just sign this cheque you this wonderfully benevolent being so I can move forward with my life and not die of frustration in this strange land pls

Thanks to him, it was possible to open the account. The new account still was not usable for the NGO connection though. There was another infuriating complication with international transfers that precluded it’s use for that purpose.

This life and problems.

Meky’s voice is sounding more distant now.

I keep walking, and grappling with this very important problem that no one can see.

A Derelict Train Station, and Ruminations on Krav Maga. 2.

What is your work?

I am now being quizzed by a man I believe to be a police officer. There is a Police Station in the Terminus.

He’s asking for my occupation.

Engineer. I’m an engineer. Software Engineer.

I prefer “Researcher”, but I think he’ll be more likely to relate with “Engineer”. The last time I attempted giving some elucidation on Artificial Intelligence research to some law enforcement officers who stopped me at a roadblock for questioning, I don’t think it quite got us anywhere.

My motorbike was parked by the side of the road. My helmet and gloves were on the ground- they made me take them off.

I was explaining to the very doubtful-looking soldier like:

Artificial Intelligence has to do with giving machines the ability to—-

Shut Up!! Shut Up!!! You are gay! Look at your mouth! You are moving your lips like a woman. You are gay!!! You are a gay!!!

I was astounded. Like, what?? Howww??? Whattt?????

So now I just say “Engineer”. Pretty much every one has an idea what “Engineer” means.

I’ve been thinking of some other words I could describe myself with. Like Founder or CEO or Managing Director. I don’t know. Maybe then people would let me off with fewer questions.

I don’t know though. The research is what I primarily identify myself with. All of those other fancy terms are just to make the whole thing sound legit. Plus, there’s the chance law enforcement could begin to demand bribes befitting of a CEO, from me.

Please I have no CEO money to give you abeg. I am but a modest researcher. Please accept this humble token, sacrificially carved out of my very unassuming wages.

Where is your ID card?

Hm that’s true. I don’t have an ID card. Not yet. It is on the list of things to get done. I explain that the company was just registered a number of months ago. Things are still taking shape etc etc.

At some point he walks away. There is a lingering suspicion and distrust on his face. He looks completely unconvinced.

I head out of the train station.

I am on the pedestrian bridge right opposite the Terminus. I need to take a picture. I’m thinking I could write a blog post about this? I don’t know. In any case a straight-up picture of the building’s facade will be helpful.

The sun is behind the building. It’s in my face. The lighting is weird. Ugh.

I take a few pictures and head back down the bridge.

There are some guys seated on the bridge. I’m not sure what they’re doing. They look like the sort of group that hangs around in secluded places with the aim of ambushing passers-by.

The only issue is that I am sure there are no passers-by here. The bridge smells of bad weed and dried urine on asphalt. I am about a hundred percent certain that I’m the only non-street-gang guy to use this bridge today. And so I kinda wonder who they’re ambushing and robbing, and how they’re getting food to eat.

Hey you! Why you dey snap us??!! Why you dey snap us??!! Bring that your phone make I see am!!

It’s one of the strange guys on the bridge. He seems to have suddenly awoken from the communal trance they appear to all be in.

He claims I’m taking a picture of them.

Hah. You wish bruh. You wish. I’m here for this decrepit train station.

He asks to see my phone.

That’s something I know I should never do. Give them leverage. Once my phone is in their grasp, I’m somewhat beholden to them.

I ignore him and briskly walk past.

As I do, another bridge guy tells the first to calm down and let me go.

I turn briefly to fling some insults their way once I am at a safe distance.

Nonsense people.

Later I’ll think about personality. Personality and contingent situational attractor states. A character in a TV show will make me starkly aware that amenableness to reason and dialogue is not to be assumed for all possible confrontational situations.

And in response I’ll begin to think seriously about Krav Maga.

A Derelict Train Station, and Ruminations on Krav Maga. 1.

I am at Oyingbo.

There is this “Lagos Terminus” building here.

I looked it up online. It says there’s a train that goes all the way to Kano, from there.

Kano. Hohoho.

I need to go see what’s going on. I need to go know what’s happening.

Usually the thought of visiting Kano or anywhere in Northern Nigeria, would infuse my mind with dread. Boko Haram and a number of other terrorist factions and sub-factions, have been wreaking serious havoc in the north.

And usually for people whose experience living in Nigeria is mostly within the southwestern region, all the Northern states sound the same. Kano. Katsina. Jigawa. Borno. They’re all pretty much the same thing. Just another state full of Hausa people.

A classmate originating from Northern Nigeria once pointed out to me- somewhat bitterly, that I was being unfair. That Boko Haram’s activities were predominantly within Borno, and that the other Northern states were relatively safe.

I heard something in the news about some kidnappings in Katsina a few days ago.

I don’t know- Maybe the stereotype “All states in Northern Nigeria are under siege by terrorists” might not be so unfair, if it’s fairness was weighed against it’s usefulness with regard to traveler safety and welfare.

I am at the Lagos Terminal.

I am walking about excitedly, looking around and asking questions.

As is usual with a lot of places in Nigeria, my excitement feels very absurd and out of place. The overwhelming weight of the incumbent socio-economic climate is evident in the general demeanour.

The hall is mostly empty. I don’t think any train is leaving soon. The workers are talking in relatively low voices. Some of them give very brief and not-so-enthusiastic responses to my questions, as they walk away.

My excitement is definitely misplaced.

I don’t really care.

I step back and take a look at the arched ceiling, comparing it in my head with the Hauptbahnhof at Frankfurt.

There are commonalities- there definitely are.

Hm, I wonder what sort of an aesthetic the architect was going for. I wonder what train stations in the world they were inspired by.

The ambience of the waiting hall fits just right with film recordings from the times before I was born. Like something you’d see in an old documentary about Nigeria- overlaid by the commentary of a very nasal British journalist.

“The Premier of the Western Region of Nigeria boards a train to Kano, to discuss a collective response to the extant British influence in the nation.”

And you’d see like Obafemi Awolowo, looking all made and affluential and important, striding into the booking office while adjusting an arm of his agbada.

There is a mouldy-looking inauguration plaque on the wall. It says the plaque was unveiled by a Sir Hugo Marshall, and Honourable Tafawa Balewa. Balewa’s face is on the Five unit denomination of the Nigerian Naira. I don’t know who Sir Hugo Marshall was.

You know, I’m really not sure what the whole point of nationalism is. I’m not sure why I should feel an unconditional sense of allegiance to, and identification with, the country I found myself having originated from. I’m not even sure what the point of a country is, to be honest.

With Nigeria specifically, the whole thing feels a lot more ambiguous and ill-defined.

“Nigerian”. What does that even mean?

Denotatively, I do not know. Other than the trivial geographical implication- which has limited usefulness, I’m not sure if any coherent meaning exists.

Connotatively, ah. That one is generally terrible. To some people, it means “Internet fraudster”. To some others it means “Drug dealer”. The list goes on and on.

And so as I walk around this Terminus, I engage myself with concepts divorced from any sort of nationalist perspectives or interpretations. Like concepts involving architecture. And engineering.

Hey! You! What are you doing there? Why are you taking pictures?

I knew it. I knew this was too good to be true. I knew at some point that overbearing, demoralizing Nigerian psychological virus would lunge out of the ominous darkness beyond and attempt to claw at my skin.

That brooding virus that causes otherwise innocuous behaviour to be consensually perceived as absurd and suspicious and even dangerous.

I was walking about in a train station and taking pictures. In most countries I don’t imagine anyone would even have the time to pay attention to me. But in Nigeria, no. It’s a crime. It’s a motherfucking criminal offence.

I turn towards the voice. It is one of the workers at the train station.

He walks up to me and asks to see my phone.

Part 1.

Traveling across Lagos During the Violent #EndSars Protests in Nigeria. Addendum 4.

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

We just left Obalende.

I had run out of liquid funds. A trenchant consequence of the severely disorienting impediment constituted by the violent protests, was that the trip had taken about two days longer than planned.

It should have been about four/five hours max. It is now about two days since I left my place of abode. I’m still not yet at my destination.

I asked a number of people for money at the bus stop, because cash on hand had run out.

I used to think asking people for money was a sign of poverty- A negative thing. Okay well maybe when it’s a continual occurrence in one’s life. But every once in a while? In cases involving like unprecedented/extremely unlikely circumstances? I don’t think there’s anything wrong. I really do not think so.

A few months ago I was in a public transportation bus. The fare was about N50 more than I expected, and I didn’t have enough cash on hand to pay the bus conductor. At the time I had a few million Naira in the bank. I was literally a millionaire. Like, millionaire in terms of liquid funds, and not even assets or net worth. Well in Nigerian Naira at least.

Two options seemed clear to me:

One: Exit the bus, go withdraw some money, get back.

Two: Ask the guy sitting beside you to help you out with the required fifty Naira.

I was very tired that afternoon. The Nigerian sun was extra-blistering that day. Just the thought of re-entering the searing radiation being propagated across space from the distressingly merciless object at the center of this solar system, injected my consciousness with some serious despair.

There is no way I am leaving this bus. Entering that sun? Waiting for the “next turn” bus to be full???

No, no way. No motherfucking way. I do not care what numbers my bank is reporting to me. I do not motherfucking care.

I turned to the guy sitting next to me, and I asked him for assistance. No time.

We just left Obalende.

About ten minutes into the journey, I realize this is the fastest I have ever been transported across the Lagos Third Mainland Bridge.

There is like nobody on the road. Traffic congestion right now, is a non-sequitur.

Just the occasional group of random guys with their arbitrary roadblocks and their unconstitutional financial demands.

On the way, we see some soldiers driving along the road in their pickup trucks, scaring away the illegitimate roadblock guys.

At some point the driver stops giving the roadblock guys money, and begins threatening them with soldiers coming from behind.

Soldier dey come, Soldier dey come!!!

They would be too startled with apprehension to demand money before the bus breezed past.

In a surreally short amount of time, we are at the Ikeja Secretariat.

I alight.

Shoprite Bus Stop.

There are a number of law enforcement officers up ahead. They are beating up some guy.

I come to a halt and turn into a corner by the left, while I take some time to properly assess the situation. I’m not interested in being a victim of physical assault this morning.

As I stand there- watching and pondering the situation, I see a guy walking up to the main road. He looks like he’s coming from a jog.

His breathing is moderately heavy, and his shiny sportswear shirt is somewhat wet with sweat. He is marching towards the road, exuding a convincing aura of adrenaline-enhanced confidence.

Ah. Look at his guy. Look at this guy walking like there’s absolutely nothing in the world which can constitute a respectable problem for him.

Ah. Ah, I think I need to move closer to this guy.

I walk towards him and interject his march with a question. We exchange a few sentences. I latch onto his momentum, and join his march.

There’s another guy close-by. He joins the procession as we proceed into the main road, and towards the soldiers.

I’m staring at the back of the jogger guy. His back looks so broad and muscular and entrancing. He is swaggering towards the officers ahead with unquestioned confidence. I wonder if this is sort of remarkable formidableness and assuredness that women experience in men, and become completely disoriented and dumbfounded.

Like, I’m a guy and I’m very inspired and impressed by the sweaty jogger guy and his unreal confidence. I wonder what a woman would feel, especially given the additional sexual angle to it in that case.

We are at the roadblock.

The soldiers begin to accost us.


The jogger guy responds immediately with this reassuring dissatisfaction that convinces one of the legitimacy of his position:

I dey go my house. All these protesters just dey cause trouble for this our road.

My mind is very blown.

Our road. “Our”. Like, OUR, road.

Jesus. Jesus Christ. This guy owns he road. I am walking with the guy who OWNS the road. Okay o. Okay Sir. Okay Sir, let’s go.

I am immensely impressed. Before the soldiers can come up with more questions, we’re past the roadblock.

We keep moving. At some point we head in different directions. The owner of the road heads in what I believe is the direction of the place where he lives.

I am heading towards Computer Village.

A building by the left catches my attention. The outfit on the ground floor says “24 hour Cafe”.

I am surprised and interested. I wonder what a 24 hour cafe in Lagos will be like. I make a mental note to stop by some time.

Computer Village is up ahead. I’m kinda tired. Legs hurt. I keep moving.

Image: Somewhere in Lagos.

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.