The fumes from the Keke Marwas almost choked me. Chaos seemed to be the order of that day, and every other day as I soon observed.

As the akara woman suddenly dropped her tray, I stepped backwards almost hitting the person at my back. She muttered some curses under her breath, I was torn between giving her a knock on the head and screaming at an impatient driver whose horn was blaring so loudly.

Still I marched on with my high heeled shoes spying out of my bag. The gathering crowd waiting for the Falomo bus reminded me of how late I was going to be for work. Still I waited. I could not afford a cab. I could not trek also, my shoes already had holes.

Finally a bus came. My taekwando skills helped out. So many mean, violent people tried to snuff the breath out of me, but God pass them. I made it finally into the bus. Just as the fish seller beside subtly pushed her second child onto my laps, realised there was an oil stain on my shirt! I almost screamed for help. I thought I had had enough until heard the conductor announce the fare. N100! I almost stood up as I screamed “For what?!”. I eventually left the fight to angrier passengers. We ended up paying N50 amidst curses and exchange of punches between an otherwise charming man in suit and the conductor.

I had to figure out the lie to tell my boss as I changed my flats to heels.

That evening, I had to walk a very long distance given that the Keke Marwa guys had hiked their fares from N30 to N50. I wasn’t ready for another fight.

As I got to the apartment, I placed my shoes under the spotlight of my soon-to-die blackberry. The holes had widened. I knew I had to get another shoe from the night market.

When my little niece asked me how my day was, all I could mutter was “Obalende”.

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