I am not someone who enjoys routines, especially the ones we have to do every blessed day of our lives. Somedays I just lack total interest in activities (I learnt it has a name: anhedonia).
Days when I don’t write a single letter, step out of my house, or feel like taking a bath! Today is one of those days. Still, I do anyway-take a bath, and I can’t help but look out the bathroom window and observe the ‘life’ outside. It’s a good thing our flat is upstairs (but climbing? Nah), as it lets me spy with ease.
The view outside isn’t one of those typical beautiful Night Time In Lagos scenery that you see looking out the windows of a car or bus, or while standing on the balcony of a story building overlooking the city. What I see through this window, isn’t beautiful at all. There’s a beer parlour across the road, where both the old and young sit on worn out chairs and surrounded by Star, Heineken, gin, Stout and other liver-unfriendly alcoholic beverages on tables looking like they would give way any moment.
Among all these men (and women), eating Nkwobi/Isi-ewu pepper soup, one gives an order “madam, give dem one one bottles” amidst hails of “Boss!” “Senior man!” “Thank you!”
They don’t seem to mind that he’s most likely squandering his monthly salary. While the owner of the parlour-a fat Igbo woman smiles and counts her money; money which I’m sure she uses to train her children through school and perhaps build a bungalow in the village. Most of these pot-bellied men and ‘baby oku’ ladies have children starving of hunger at home and are left to fend for themselves, wives receiving merciless beatings when they get home from their spree. These people, controlled by their addictions argue loudly and laugh when nothing is funny.
It’s 12:30 AM, and I’m no longer standimy at the bathroom window, but I can hear the people from across the road and hotels driving home on high speed; the wretched ones staggering on foot and babbling incoherently.