I manage to hear this in the midst of the deafening silence that seem to have engulfed the area.
I look back, obviously in search of the Son of Man that calls.
11:09am.
The street is usually empty at this time of the day. Workers would have been at work few hours ago, every shops and mini stores opened, the children and teens that seem to fill it up are already in their various schools except for those that had only concluded the WAEC exams few days ago.
"Who could be whistling and calling Broda?" I ask myself.
"Well", I shrug, "If the person needs me, he will call again".
As I turn to leave, a huge palm waves and beckons to me from a corner. It's a dude from the neighbourhood, I guess. I move towards him.
"Come and help us to settle this, please." he says. I answer with a nod.
I ask what the problem is as I stride to his side, and he points to a guy he is pinning to the wall with a hand on the guy's neck. A complete inverse of the fat dude that called me. Frail-looking. Though, both look within my age bracket. My line of sight richochets off him quicker than ball that hits a goal post and comes to rest on the huge dude.
"He won't give me my Fanta drink".
Then, he goes on to recount how the Fanta drink dropped from the back of one of the huge Company Trucks and he'd rushed in to take it but was overtaken by the lean dude.
"It's not his. It's mine", the frail-looking guy retorts. "I saw it first".
A scuffle ensued and a crossfire of heavy curses and insults are exchanged afterwards.
"IT'S OKAY!". I break them apart.
And silence is restored.
I look from the chubby dude, the emotion expressed on his face, he has the "we die here" look. To the lean dude. Woow! It's like the first time I look carefully at him since I got here.
Well, it takes only half a second to take in his features anyway, since there isn't much to take in. Tall scrawny guy, makes Wiz Khalipha look like Rick Ross and Christopher Wallace combined. But I refuse to prejudge him with his feeble look. On these streets, one's size is no determinant of one's fighting prowess. I've seen thin guys whoop men ten times their sizes many a time. And for no real basis, I'm sure this dude will effortlessly take on the chubby guy if shit goes south. In fact, I'm eager to witness this single conviction of mine.
"Okay! Where is the Fanta drink?". I collect it.
"It's mine. Believe ¡ª"
"Shut up, please." I respond quickly.
I place the bottle down somewhere between them.
"Okay! Here's what we'll do. How about both of you settle this like Men, instead?"
Then, I go on to convince them of why this is fair and the winner takes home the prize. I add as a final note, that anyone can decide to chicken out, back out. It's no big deal. It'll only prove he's a coward.
That rouses the rage in both, I suppose. Atleast this is visible in the big dude. The lean guy remains almost unreadable. His face retains the same scowl he's had on since. Ribcage literally contracting and expanding, perhaps because of fear or a rage brewing and -
Whatever!
They both agree.
"Okay, pick a side. Write your name on the ground. You both will cancel each other's name and the fight will commence officially. Now, Go!"
In a space of seconds, the big guy has written his name.
"Habeeb". I read aloud. He nods in acknowledgement as he removes his top that reveals the broadest chest I've ever seen in my life. So, it turns out that the fatty guy that is suppose to be covered with only fats isn't a fat guy. He's one muscular Iron Man with the Captian America's shield for breast. Damn! Hulk has nothing on this one. In truth, it's safer to say it's an impressive replica of Hulk.
"WT Hell?". A voice says from beside me. I slowly cock my head sideways but just in time to see the worries scribbled as wrinkles on the face of the lean dude. He jolts out of this quickly. I guess he doesn't wanna betray anymore emotions than he already did.
So, dude bends down to pick up a stick to write his name with, and for a sec, I thought he'd snap into two. No! He's flexible. Fine.
"Dude, wtf you writing, man?" I ask after what seem like 45 mins since he started writing his name. I almost assumed he was named after a particular long bible verse.
"Done", with a smile.
"Okay! Now, what have you been writing, the whole book of Psalm?". The huge dude chuckled.
"No, It's my name. "Tikobashepeolorungbamikalelowoawonasheibiawonotaibayomiatiwipeodajuwipeoluwanimiiloniiransere."
What! You should see my face. My eyeballs almost jumped out of the sockets.
"Well, gentlemen, let the brawl begin. Erase the entire names now with your legs."
Now, if I hadn't watched this fight enfold to this level, I'd have thought this was a terrible joke played on me. No. It isn't.
Tikoba, for short, wastes no time to cancel out his adversary's name. With just a swipe of his feet, he's done. With a smile, of course. You'll think he's cut-out for this particular activity - fighting. As if he's bellicose. Atleast that's what I am thinking.
On the other side, Habeeb is seen struggling with his own part. He's already looking worn and tired from dragging around his feet down what looks like a thousand nautical miles, all in a bid to claim the spot.
Sighs.
"This is not going to end well. Tikoba(...) has managed to level up the field with his deliberate choice of name." I mutter to myself.
"You know what, lets just --- where is Tikoba(...)?"
Habeeb looks up, takes a hasty look at the surrounding. He shakes his head and a fit of laughter overtakes him. He then walks towards me with a bit of pride thrown into his gait. A "swaggerlicious" walk.
"Omo ole (lazy child). He don run co¡ª"
He stops amidst his sentence. His smiling face alters drastically into a look of horror, eyeballs seem to have inflated and on the verge of rolling off. His nostrils flared up. Apparently burning with anger.
"Where is the Fanta drink?" he manages to ask me, I guess.
I look down at the spot I had left the bottle quizzically, and the ground in turn replies with what appears to be "I be security ni?" attitude. The lean cunning dude has run off with the prize -- Fanta bottle.
"Shit".
Habeeb is now full fledged Angry Bird. Waiting to pounce on any pig that resembles Tikoba.
"Do you know his house?" I ask.
"No." came the answer, accompanied with a sob.
I feel sorry for him. That drink must have meant a great deal to him. Thousands of emotions surge through me but one thought is carefully intruding intermittently. I've taken too long here and I need to get going.
I check my wristwatch.
12:10pm.
By now, the serenity of our street is being disturbed by the sounds of "Alajapa" buses full of traders returning from different Lagos markets. Whilst the truants will be finding their way home and their serious counterpart, they are probably on their way back into their classrooms as the bell just rang from the distant school to indicate the end of Long Break Time, and the jobless and indolent citizens are still stirring on their beds, just waking up or brushing their teeth.
"Take heart, bro. God will provide another one. I have to go now." As I excuse myself.
P.S. "Tikobashepeolorungbamikalelowoawonasheibiawonotaibayomiatiwipeodajuwipeoluwanimiiloniiransere" means If not that God saved me from the hands of the evil people, the enemies would have mocked me and it is evident that God needs me in his Ministry.
Written by AbdulHakeem.
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