Cinquenta Mil. 00.

I am at Espargos.

I am on the ground floor of this interesting white apartment complex.

I saw this wooden reclining chair under the shade of some overhanging staircase structure. Facing the courtyard with the garden and the playground.

I was talking with the receptionist earlier. Asking her about the cost of renting one of the apartments.

She was occupied with something throughout. I think she was doing something with her nails. Or her phone, one of them.

She muttered something in Cape Verdean Creole. I wasn’t at all sure what she said.

I probed a bit more.

She muttered some more incomprehensible Creole in-between her doing whatever-it-was she was doing with her nails or her phone.

This time I caught something: Cinco mil or something like that.

Five thousand.

Five thousand for rent.

Now I just don’t know what currency she’s talking about.

Five thousand Euros?

Five thousand Cape Verdean Escudos?

Both are accepted as legal tender in this country.

The US dollar is not. Even the Euro cents are not. I recently had to wish my collection of Dollar and Euro cents goodbye. I stacked them on the ledge of a grocery store window and sadly walked away.

There was just no point in keeping the brown metal discs which were nothing but an illusion of money.

The official at the bank said unlike foreign currency notes, coins posed too much of a logistical complication. They could exchange tourists’ dollar notes for local currency- They would simply have to ship the bag of collected Dollar notes to their HQ on another island.

Things weren’t so easy with coins because of the weight. Shipping bags of coins? Coins worth how much exactly?

She had a point. It was still sad to abandon the coins though. I could have really used the extra change.

I had no idea what the absent-minded receptionist was saying exactly.

And she did not look like she was in the mood for more questions.

I’ve got like fifty euros in a Cape Verdean bank account I recently opened.

I had this monthly financial agreement with an NGO in Nigeria which I had to rejuvenate upon the commencement of this gap year from college in the USA.

Right now I get about Fifty euros per month as a stipend for sending in monthly updates on an AI project I’ve been working on for a while.

Fifty euros, more or less. The Naira-to-Euro exchange rate usually fluctuates across months.

A new instalment came in a few days ago.

I head to the ATM to withdraw Fifty euros.

Fifty euros is equivalent to about Five thousand Cape Verdean Escudos.

The occupied receptionist said rent was five thousand.

It couldn’t have been five thousand Cape Verdean escudos could it?

Fifty euros? For those freshly constructed multi-storey apartments?

But wait- It also couldn’t have been five thousand Euros. For rent. For a month.

Or did she mean a year?

I’m somewhat confused.

But right now I’m not putting too much effort in understanding what is going on. I withdraw a bunch of notes from the ATM- Pieces of paper with numbers and portraits printed on them- the usual.

I head back to the receptionist and pass her the bunch of notes.

If she gives me the key to an apartment right now, I won’t even complain.

She looks at me with a strange sneer on her face, muttering some more incomprehensible Creole.

I don’t understand her own Creole. I’ve been on this island for over six months now, and I feel like I know enough Creole to at least get by.

But this receptionist- This strange woman that’s always attending to me from one small corner of her eye- I don’t understand what language she’s speaking.

Somewhere amidst the befuddling spray of unintelligible sounds coming from her, I discern yet again another number:

Cinquenta mil.

The rent is ten times higher than I thought it was. It’s not fifty euros, it’s five hundred. Fifty thousand Cape Verdean Escudos.

I have no idea where the miscommunication was from. Her inattention, her incomprehensible Creole, or the deceptive intricacies of currency exchange rates. I have absolutely no idea.

I was just thinking:

She mentioned a number.

I got some notes.

If I’m given an apartment key, I won’t even ask questions. I’ll collect it with gratitude and bask in appreciation of the strokes of good fortune in life which are beyond one’s comprehension.

I am at the Police station.

The wooden reclining chair I was lying on, was for the security guard.

He didn’t even communicate with me directly, like Hey you that’s my chair– he just called the Police.

Oh God.

I am seated in a room.

Opposite me is Carlos- the Commander of Police on the island.

We met earlier in the year- about two weeks after I arrived Cape Verde for the gap year.

I had just gotten arrested on the beach at the southernmost end of the island.

At some point I realized I was arrested just for walking along the beach at night.

A number of disturbing incidents had happened in the past where some inimical natives had robbed, injured, and in one case, killed a tourist.

These malevolent natives were usually walking along the beach at night, from where they intercepted unsuspecting tourists strolling around the beachfront hotels where they were lodged.

I- completely unaware of all that, was sauntering through the wet sand that night, thinking about how to navigate the mathematical nuances of building a custom neural network library from scratch using the Python programming language.

I had my computer and other accessories on the porch of an interesting empty-looking cabin I came across.

I was strolling along the coastline, absorbing some serious inspiration as the periodic crashing of the ocean waves massaged my ears and enveloped me in their riotous, transcendent rhythm.

I was wearing a hoodie.

And the hood was up, covering my face.

Prime suspect. I was definitely planning to kill someone. Like, without a doubt.

The ferocity with which I was bundled and thrown into the Police van though.

Oh God.


I don’t understand.

You can’t just keep roaming about like this.

You need a job. You need a place to stay.

You need ehh,

He gesticulates-


It is Carlos- the Commander of Police.

Samuel is the first name in my international passport.

I’m just sitting in this chair and feeling very irresponsible.

I’m here again.

Oh man.

I attempt to give some sort of an explanation. Give information on some of my professional-esque involvements with a Spanish Biodiversity NGO on the island.

At some point Carlos goes:

Hm, you’re very good with words.

In my head I’m probably thinking:

This guy likes me. I should stop disappointing him by getting arrested all the time.

He asks me some questions. Asks me what I think of him.

I say I think he’s a cool guy. That he has a particularly difficult and stressful job but he still manages to mantain a very jovial demeanor.

He’s excited by my perspective.

He says, Yes yes- Smile- Smile is good! Smile is good!! You smile, you know? You smile!!!

At some point the Police let me go.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I thought maybe they would give me a place to stay- You know, maybe one of those five hundred million euros apartment with the receptionist who is always engrossed in her nails.

You know, for some condicão.

I don’t know, I was just thinking.

I am at a bar.

I’m drinking some Cape Verdean beer.


Image: Earlier that year.

This post is one in a Series. The other pieces in the series can be accessed here.

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.

January 2 2017. Nelson Mandela International Airport, Santiago Island, Cape Verde. [2]

It is daybreak. It is my first morning in Cape Verde.

Rolph has left for Maio.

I feel sad. There’s this poignant, albeit relatively brief, sense of aloneness I experience whenever I’m separated from a travel companion. I felt it when the Mozambican left to catch his flight in Lisbon. Now I feel it again.

The airport here feels small. I felt like I spent almost an entire day exploring the airport in Lisbon. The airport here at Praia looks like it’ll take about fifteen to twenty minutes. Skateboarding is not even a possibility. Relative to airports in major European cities, this place feels squeezed.

It is warm. The air is warm- possibly as a function of the climate here, but at the same time I can also feel the warmth of the bodies moving around in the room.

The floor tiles look like they cost less. Everywhere looks less new and less glossy. It takes a while to appreciate this relative absence of glossiness.

The bathroom reminds me of Nigeria. Not in any negative way, no. The sanitary wares just look like the types used in Nigeria.

The morning air smells of leaves and transpiration and the uncertainty of the future.

I’ve had this piece of paper with me since Lisbon. I’ve been writing poems on it. Poems about heartbreak and nostalgia and anxiety. I wrote one about airports. The title is “An airport is multiple places”.

There are some small planes outside for inter-island flights. This is my first time seeing a plane with actual propellers- so far I have only physically seen planes with jet engines. The blades are black, with one like a fan on each wing.

There was an issue at check-in. I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed to board the plane with my skateboard. I didn’t understand.

What? Why?

The immigration officer talking with me, engages in some additional consultation with a woman who appears to be his boss in the airport employee hierarchy.

He says they’re trying to prevent a situation where the skateboard is used as a weapon to harm the people on the plane.

I am very shocked. I have never heard that before.


Eventually we agree to transport it as baggage. And I don’t have to pay for it. The officer promises to have it transported safely. I think we exchange a knowing look— He himself is surprised by the sudden policy on skateboards. I think his boss is just being irrational this morning.

I am in the plane. It is a small plane, even smaller than the Wow airlines discount flight I used with an Indian classmate a number of months before.

The plane is sparsely occupied. I think I am the only one on my row, which has about four seats.

There is a brightly colored picture of a laughing Cape Verdean woman dressed in very interesting attire. The picture is up in a number of places in the plane. I’ll later see the same picture on the packaging of some traditional Cape Verdean coffee.

There is a guy a number of rows ahead of me. I have heard him chattering excitedly in Creole since I got in. It is most likely his first time flying. He keeps laughing and chatting euphorically and bouncing on his seat and peering through the window.

The environment in this country feels very different from Germany, where I lived for a number of months. Amongst other things, I am still trying to get used to being around so many black bodies.

The plane takes off.

We are flying over Sal. I stare down at the bright brown undulating desert sand, mesmerized.

We touchdown at Aeroporto Internacional Amilcar Cabral, somewhere in the middle of the island.

As I exit the plane, I am welcomed with the warm, relatively-humid air of Sal.

Like Praia, we exit the plane by walking down the stairway at the side. In my previous travel experiences, there was usually this channel that led from the airplane door to the airport- travelers never actually used the stairway thing.

The airport is sparse. There is an excited couple getting their bags. I think the woman is pretty.

At some point I’m the only one in the entrance hall and there’s no other traveler in sight.

It is so bright and sunny here. It is the polar opposite of cold grey Berlin. I will later find myself in situations (mostly in Nigeria) where people do not understand why I sometimes just lie out in the sun.

The dull grey cold of winter in Berlin gave me a deep-seated appreciation for sunlight and atmospheric warmth. People who have spent (usually) all of their lives in tropical climates generally see spending extended amounts of time out in the sun, as punishment and as something to be avoided.

And so it’s exceptionally strange for such people to see me lying out in the sun and “punishing myself”. Although it definitely has to be said that the intensity of the sunlight in Nigeria can sometimes be highly unconducive to leisurely naps.

My skateboard landed safely, as promised.

In about four months I’ll give this skateboard as a gift to a neighbor- the younger brother of the Cape Verdean guy with an estranged European family. I bought it at a skate shop along Market street in San Francisco. It has a picture of rotting fruits on the underside. I liked the picture because at the time I bought it, I felt like I needed some sour stimulus- something to jar my reality.

Skateboarding will not be as much of a priority in a few months. I’ll be spending tons of time, energy and concentration figuring out my plans for the future and for my life. There won’t be much spare energy to channel into skateboarding.

I leave my bags at the airport entrance, and go skateboard in the car park. I do this for about two minutes before airport security stops me.

In my perspective, one major difference between the urban experience in relatively developed countries and developing ones, is the presence of stricter security around buildings (and generally locations) of attraction in developing countries.

In relatively developed countries, pretty much everywhere looks nice. In developing countries the relatively nice looking places highly contrast with the less aesthetically pleasing areas (this is also usually the case with regard to relative socioeconomic advancement) and usually require stricter security to prevent such locations from devolving into the less admirable conditions prevalent in the immediate environment.

A consequence of this, is that people living in developing countries acquire this learned inhibition around these locations. Coming from the West however, these locations didn’t seem overwhelmingly awesome to me — They were nice, yeah- just not to the point where I would feel any inhibition around them. And so I would be skating around a relatively nice looking building- like:

Yeah I used to skate around the buildings in Berlin like this.

To the residents however, my behavior was strange, somewhat disrespectful, and (especially to security) unacceptable. After overcoming the stupefaction they experienced regarding how I was able to move about so freely and carefreely in such a “NIICEEE” environment, they would stop me and generally try to influence me in the direction of a more inhibited and self-conscious disposition.

It always pissed me off.

I pick up my bags and get a taxi to Espargos.

The next time I’ll be inside this airport, I’ll be coming out of a police van after spending the night in a cell at Espargos.

I’ll meet Carlos- the Commander of Police on the island. I’ll perceive him to be a pretty interesting guy- very admirable biceps. Conscientious and determined, yet open enough to smile and be friendly.

We’ll sort out the misunderstanding which led to my arrest. We’ll have an interesting conversation and at some point he’ll attempt to introduce one of the very attractive Cape Verdean women working in the airport, to me as a potential girlfriend. She’ll look even more appealing given that I spent the night before languishing in a dark and unfriendly cell at the station. I’ll be too self-conscious after such an experience, to give much thought to his proposition.

We’ll talk some more- he’ll talk briefly about his childhood, and the determination which drove him to acquire a foreign education. He’ll talk to me about some issues he’s facing on the job. Regarding unwanted immigrants and difficulties with politely returning them to their countries of origin.

I’ll wonder why the Commander of Police is talking to me about these things. I’ll wonder what about me makes him afford me such regard. I’ll wonder why he thinks I could possibly have something helpful to say.

I mean, if I take some time to think I’ll probably come up with something- but I wonder what gives him that impression about me. Me who was brought here in a police van, freshly released from handcuffs and a night in the cell at the Espargos police station.


Image: Walking along the major expressway in Sal.

This post is directly connected with a number of others. An index of these other posts can be accessed here.

Traveling across Lagos During the Violent #EndSars Protests in Nigeria. Part 1.


This guy is dead.

There is a dead body lying in the middle of the expressway. I was on my phone, making some displeased tweets about the frustratingly unreliable state of telecommunications network signals in the general country.

The expressway is deserted, so it was alright letting my phone have most of my attention. I did not expect to run into anything or anyone.

I almost kicked the body.

He is barefoot, wearing dull grey trousers and a faded dark green shirt. His upper body is buried under a heap of vehicle tyres. His head is either bowed down or his shirt has been pulled over the back of his head. Either way, his face is not visible.

His body parts have begun to swell grotesquely. I wonder how a body could have begun to swell after just a few hours of being out in the sun.

A guy is walking by. We begin talking about the body. I thought the dead guy was shot earlier in the morning. I learn the body has been in the middle of the expressway for the past two days.

Oh. Oh, now the swelling makes sense. Now it makes sense.

We keep talking. I attempt to ask some proactive questions. How do you think this unrest can be resolved, etc. I don’t really get anything definitive from him.

In the current situation, it’s not very difficult to become aware that a problem exists. Figuring out ways to expel the problem, is where the real issue is at.

I mean, I myself do not have anything very tangible to offer. If only there was a way to amicable resolve every possible kind of human disagreement. Then wars and any other sorts of violent conflict would just not exist.

Deserted Expressway. Burning Tyres.

I keep walking. There are a number of issues I need to handle. Things need to be put in place with regard to the fledgling technology company I’ve been building. Corporate email subscriptions are about to run out. Squarespace plan needs to be upgraded. Everything is generally just annoying. My motorbike has been languishing at the mechanic’s place for a while. I need to replace some parts.

Mechanic was avoiding my gaze a few days ago when I walked by his shop. I had to turn back, walk up to him and engage him in some conversation, to reaffirm my existence.

The owner of this bike still exists. It is not to be sold to anybody.

He had probably already begun receiving financial offers for my bike.

Ah, I need to get some stuff done. I ordered that bike all the way from the capital- there’s probably nothing like it in this half of the country- nothing must happen to that bike. Nothing must happen to that freaking bike.

I am at one of the many towns along the Lekki-Epe expressway. There are gunshots. We all climb a nearby fence and scamper to safety.

We are in a roadside marketplace. It is entirely abandoned. Stalls full of tomatoes and pepper and onions and other foodstuff. Completely abandoned.

Abandoned Marketplace.

There are a number of women here in this ad-hoc hideout.

Oga, where you dey go?

Ikeja, I dey go Ikeja.

They begin to laugh and generally express immense amusement. My mentioned destination is generally perceived to be an impossible-to-reach location given the current unrest.

I’m not very bothered. I am already on the way. Some things have to get done. We’ll see how things turn out.

We keep hiding. Guns keep firing at the expressway.

There are some loud voices closer to the road. One of the women ventures out to see what is going on.

She suddenly begins to wail.

John!! John ehhh! Dem don kill John!!! Wetin him dey find for there??? Wetin John dey find for there??!!

Apparently a John was killed in the shooting. I think he was trying to disarm the unconscionable policeman who was shooting at the protesters.

The apprehension in the air is now joined by a tang of bitter grief. And fear. And a stark awareness of mortality.

Part 1.

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

Traversing Lagos at Night During a Pandemic-Induced Curfew.

Unknown Location, Lagos Nigeria.

I stare down at Google Maps on my phone.

The Lekki peninsula is an awkward polygon, completely bereft of any useful informative detail. My physical location is marked as a big blue circle that seems too large for the strange polygon it is situated on.

Edge is just useless ugh.

I switch my phone’s connection from 2G to 3G. I’m not even going to touch the LTE because I’m trying to save my battery. It is one percent. It has actually been one percent for like the past two hours.

In my experience the last one percent on the iPhone is equivalent to like the 20 percent that comes before it.

That last one percent is surprisingly indefatigable. I know. But of course I am still not going to touch that LTE right now.

The junction is dark. There are no street lights. As usual. That’s Nigeria. The only roads that have reliably functioning street lights are those named after the people who the residents of that area generally consider to be prominent.

Usually if a street is not named after a prominent Nigerian, it’s going to be very dark at night because the street lights are highly likely to be nonfunctional.

I approach one of the guys on a commercial motorcycle.

I’m going to Victoria Island. How do I get there?

I know how to get to Victoria Island. I just do not know where I am. The bus driver who drove us from Eleko had to go through an unorthodox route because he needed to circumvent the police roadblock which was situated along the usual course. And so now I’m in this place that I do not know, and in which a gradually accrued familiarity is taking time to develop because there is not enough illumination to make sense of my immediate surroundings.

The motorbike guy says something. The sentence he utters seems to be completely comprised of valid English words, but there does not seem to be any meaning in his utterance as a whole. I think he is trying to be sarcastic and make fun of me, but his joke seems like it seriously lacks a point.

I hiss and keep walking.

Ah. I see the policemen at the roadblock now. The infamous policemen. They are right under Jubilee bridge. I do not think they are bothering pedestrians. I walk towards the junction beneath the Jubilee bridge.

Jubilee Bridge, Ajah, Lagos.

I am trying to find a means of transportation to Lekki Phase 1.

I have already paid rent. I don’t think I am interested in spending a night here in Ajah. I must make sure to fully utilise every kobo of that rent that I have paid. I have to get to Lekki this night.

Plus there is this pot of rice and beans I made last night. I was already falling asleep and I had to keep waking myself up to check if the food was done.

It is in the fridge. I just need to land at the apartment and microwave it. I put some chopped-up KFC chicken in some tomato sauce along with some corned beef. There was some snail meat in the pot at some point but all of that is definitely gone now.

That is what is on my mind right now. This Ajah environment is extremely unappealing to me. I need to get to my rice and beans and KFC chicken and tomato sauce and corned beef. I need to get away from this place.

Some guy raises his voice at me. He says something with a somewhat derisive edge to it. My interpretation of his needless derision is that some people could find the shovel I have slung across my shoulder, confrontational.

I bought this shovel from the Game store at the Palms shopping mall a few days ago. I needed a sturdy shovel to uproot some palm tree stumps on a freshly acquired piece of land in a considerably remote area of the eastern part of the state. The moment I saw the shovel, I knew I had to buy it. It came with a 90 year warranty. Ninety fucking years. A shovel has to be like indestructible for it to come with a fucking ninety year warranty.

So yeah, it’s been an interesting day with the shovel. It’s been explicitly admired by a considerable number of people today. The driver who dropped me at Eleko took some time to marvel at the shovel and comment that it really was worth the price.

I keep walking about and talking with the commercial motorcyclists. I need to get to Lekki.

Jakande, Lagos Island.

We’re zooming forward on the bike. The road is so empty. This curfew thing must be very serious. A guy zooms past us on a power bike.

Ahhh. This one is a boss. In this lockdown you’re zooming about like this. Me I don’t know what cc your motorbike is that is giving you the energy to zoom about like this. Sha be going. Mister power bike.

The commercial bike rider slows down. There is another roadblock ahead.

Oh my God. What is all this. I thought we were past all of these roadblocks.

We turn around, in search of an alternative route.

We exchange ideas as he manoeuvres his bike towards safety. He says he knows of a different route we could take.

We keep going.

The Different Route.

How far! Anybody dey front?

Nobody dey, nobody dey. Dey go dey go!

A fellow motorcyclist lets him know that this new route is without any road blocks.

We keep moving.

There is a somewhat large Mercedes Benz building by the left. Ah this reminds me of the Mercedes Benz Arena in Berlin. Ah that was a few years ago. I think that one was bigger though. I remember I used to skateboard around the premises—

Mayowa face where you’re going. There is a pandemic. And there is a curfew. And it is late.

And so I focus my attention on what is ahead of me.

The motorbike guy tries to inflate his price.

I negotiate.

Two thousand Naira. From Ajah to Lekki Phase 1. Because you’re the one putting money inside my bank account abi.

You better keep going Mister Man.

Lekki Peninsula Scheme 1 Entrance.

I alight from the motorbike and pay the rider. We exchange pleasantries and part ways.

Ah I am going to have to walk all the way down Admiralty way now.

With this heavy-duty ninety year warranty shovel.

Oh God.

I keep going.

Ride-hailing services close by six because of the curfew. I think public transportation closes at about the same time. I have not had the time to learn how to drive a car. Skateboarding for transportation is pointless in Nigeria, and I did not feel like booking a driver today.

Oh this is so annoying.

I see a Dominos Pizza by the right.

I march towards the entrance, shovel slung across my shoulder, trying to decide if one XXL Triple Meat Pizza (or whatever it’s called) will be enough, or if I’ll have to buy another one in addition. At least all of this walking about will be compensated with something.

As I approach the door, the security guard calls out to me.

Wait what? It’s closed?

How about delivery?

What? Delivery is also closed?

Oh my God. Now I am really beginning to feel the impact of this curfew. What is all this?

I keep moving.

Africa Lane, Lekki Phase 1.

It is 10:30 PM.

I open the door.

Somehow I managed to get not just my physical body here, but also the heavy-duty ninety year warranty shovel, and two full bags of drinks from the 24/7 supermarket along Admiralty way. I just kept filling the trolley with drinks out of annoyance. Nonsense pandemic. Rubbish lockdown. Nonsense curfew.

I put down all of the shopping bags.

Hm I think I have a story today.

Image: View of Lagos Island from the Third Mainland Bridge at night. This was actually a different night.