Back in Ayobo, the private OPC security man I employed for my house once called me around 3am in the night.
Baba was whispering over the phone
โOga, armed robbers are around o. Iโm hiding in a bush o. Please be at alert sirโ
That night, I promised myself that if I survive this ordeal, Iโm getting German shepherds
I landed in Toronto in November with one number saved in my phone.
My cousin Desmond. Who was supposed to pick me up. Who texted at the arrivals gate to say his car broke down and there was a bus I could take.
I had four bags, $200 USD, and no idea which direction was north.
The bus stop was outside the terminal. I found it. Sat on my bags in the cold the way you sit when you're too proud to cry but too overwhelmed to pretend. Wind like nothing Lagos had ever introduced me to. Cutting through my jacket like it was paper.
I was 24. First time leaving Nigeria. First time seeing my own breath.
A woman sat down beside me twenty minutes later. Small. White hair pulled back. Skin like someone who'd spent years outdoors. Eastern European accent I couldn't place. She had one shopping bag and a thermos flask.
She looked at me once. Looked at the bags. Looked at my face.
Then she opened the thermos and poured something into the cap and held it out.
Hot tea.
I almost refused the way you do when you're raised not to collect things from strangers. But my hands were already reaching.
She nodded like that settled something.
Her name was Vera. Originally from Kyiv. Thirty one years in Toronto. Her daughter lived three streets from the airport. She visited every Sunday.
I told her I was from Lagos. She said she had a colleague from Lagos years ago. Said he taught her the word "แบนjแป" please and she never forgot it because he told her it carried something the English word didn't. Something between the person asking and the person being asked.
I didn't know what to do with that.
Her bus came first. She stood, straightened her coat, picked up her bag. Then she stopped.
Reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a scarf. Dark green. Thick wool. Store tag still on it.
I said I couldn't.
She said "you'll need it more than she will. I'll buy another."
She meant her daughter.
I held that scarf the whole bus ride to Desmond's place. Didn't even wear it. Just held it. The way you hold something when you're still trying to understand what happened.
That was 2016.
I still have it.
There have been days in Toronto when this city feels like a machine built for people who already know how to use it. When everything costs too much and the cold has no mercy and home is a six hour flight you can't afford.
On those days I take out the scarf.
Not to wear it. Just to remember that a woman from Kyiv poured tea into a flask cap at a bus stop and reached into a bag meant for her daughter without hesitating.
She never asked my name. I never got hers.
But some people hand you something at exactly the right moment and you spend the rest of your life trying to be that for someone else.
I'm still trying.
Anywhere in the world, the death of a Brig Gen and 3 Lt. Cols is a national security emergency, but in Nigeria, it's another Thursday.
We can't continue like this o
When I tell people I get up with my husband every morning at 4:30am to pack his lunch and make him a hot breakfast they asked me if his arms were broken so I donโt think they want to hear it.
A guy couldn't find a job anywhere, so he opened a small "miracle clinic."
Outside, he put up a big sign:
Treatment: $300. If it doesn't work, you get $1,000 back!
A local know-it-all thought, "Easy money."
He walked in and said, "Doc, I've completely lost my sense of taste."
The guy calmly said, "Nurse, bring Box #22. Three drops."
The nurse put three drops in the man's mouth.
The man immediately spat it out. "That's gasoline!"
The doctor smiled. "Congratulations! Your taste is back. That'll be $300."
The man stormed out, furious.
A week later, he returned. "Doc, my memory is getting really bad."
The doctor said, "Nurse, Box #22. Three drops."
The man yelled, "Wait! That's the gasoline one for taste!"
The doctor grinned. "Great! Your memory is back too. $300, please!"
Now the man was determined to win.
He came back again and said, "Doc, I'm losing my eyesight."
The doctor sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't have medicine for that. Here's your $1,000."
The man looked at the bills. "This is only $500!"
The doctor smiled. "And your vision is back. That'll be $300."
ICE officers stopped by our farm yesterday.
โWe need to inspect your property for illegal aliens,โ one of them said.
I replied, โAlright, but whatever you do, donโt go into that field over there.โ
The officer in charge exploded.
โMister, I have the authority of the federal government behind me!โ he barked, reaching into his back pocket. He yanked out a badge and shoved it in my face. โSee this fucking badge? This badge means I can go wherever I want on ANY land. No questions asked, no answers given. Am I clear? Do you understand?โ
I nodded politely and said, โBe my guest.โ Then I went back to my chores.
About ten minutes later, I heard screaming.
I looked up and saw six ICE agents running for their lives, being chased by my big, mean, old bull.
And with every step, that bull was closing in fast.
It looked like they were about to get gored for sure.
So I dropped my tools, ran over to the fence, and shouted at the top of my lungs:
โYOUR BADGE! SHOW HIM YOUR FUCKING BADGE!โ
When I was in the university, I had this friend, same level, different department. We were really cool, weโd share stories, experiences and even his escapades, Iโd sometimes speak with his siblings on the phone when he calls home.
One time i told him I was traveling, he casually asked me not to go, I went and was involved in an accident, they had to bring us back to Ibadan.
After school, we lost touch.
Last week, my girlfriend called and asked me to guess who she was with, OPE!
They were very close to my house, โyou people should wait for meโ I screamed.
Kia, I took okada, got there and it was a really big church.
Ope ti di Woli nla, I saw old men and women kneeling while addressing him.
I immediately understood how people who knew Jesus as the carpenterโs son felt because what do you mean Ope ni daddy yin?
Daddy biitibawo ๐ญ๐ฉ๐ฉ