I remember the day life gave me shit. It was no ordinary day in the city of dreamers. Lagos, the city that
never sleeps as she is fondly called was in a deep slumber waiting to be kissed by her prince, Sun. The
sky was pitch black, perhaps, mourning the loss of stars while the moon, slow dancing with the clouds,
couldn’t be bothered to cast enough glow to illuminate the dark and almost empty street.
I didn’t mind the darkness since I’d become used to PHCN’s bipolar disorder. This morning, my mind was
somewhere else. I had a major presentation, and everyone was counting on me to impress the client; a
great burden to place on the shoulders of a junior executive. As I walked briskly to the bus stop, I
clutched my laptop bag tightly to my chest like a body guard protecting her client from possible attacks,
but this assault I’m sure wouldn’t have crossed the mind of Frank in the movie, Transporter.
From nowhere, a black nylon flew straight at me and emptied its content all over me. I was covered in
poop: it was in my hair, my dress, and my perfume, sadly, gave up the ghost. Life, they say, isn’t a bed of
roses but there I was covered in manure that could make the roses bloom.