SMITHEREENS OF DEATH 14 The Dying Of An Itinerant Madman

I learned the city by myself, on my own, my feet memorizing every street, every s.h.i.+t. I could recite her filth in my sleep. This city of my dreams – not anymore – reality had jarred me awake: money does not grow on trees here. And the fruits of our labour are rotten.

My feet had followed my heart to this city. Now I have to drag my heavy heart around the city as my feet greet dead streets in search of bread.

In one street, the road is paved with artificial l.u.s.t. The girls look through you as if they can see your thinking, your madness. They sell decaying fantasies. They can tell there is a sore in my pocket. But my mouth is full of love. 'Na love I go chop,' this one says. Indeed, is love edible? I chew that over in my mind. My stomach turns. Fear. Antic.i.p.ation. Hunger . . . She senses my infirmity. 'How much you get sef?' she asks. Can she heal me? Well, what I have is all I have. I give her everything.

I lie next to her, empty, of everything.

When she grows tired of saying nothing she returns me to

the streets.

Night had fallen into the streets while I was in there. Blue, pink, green, purple and red lights of dangling bulbs struggle against the darkness.

The sore festers and weeps in my pocket, with only this last five naira note that couldn't buy me enough hope to last me till tomorrow, or even a dream to fill the long night.
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As the noose tightens around my neck, the aroma of my neighbour's frying enters the room and wraps me in an embrace. The familiar stale-s.h.i.+t stench from the latrine also climbs in through the window and spreads itself around the room to preside over the dying of a veteran itinerant madman, to escort him to his final destination.

I have learned this city. I know her. My feet know her streets the way a blind man's hands know his lover's body, all the curves, crossroads, corners. My spirit will roam this city free, caressing all those places she did not let my feet touch, those sweet places that only the G.o.ds are allowed to taste.

My spirit will roam free and my story will haunt you; it will be a memorial under your skin, my dear Lagos.