(MUST READ) Chronicles Of a Butter Boy

I am an Aje-butter. Not by birth, or by forming, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He's God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter  and a funny Bri-Merican accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…

I see pain every day. It is constant in Lagos. This city blessed beyond measure has its fair share of sorrows and agony, making life in Lasgidi not all fun and sun. On most days, saying goodbye to my house leaves me shivering with fear, because stepping out of my protective sanctuary (which I love to call my new home), is akin to jumping onto a merry-go-round of sorrow. With pained stares greeting your every step, and the bitterness in the hearts of the inhabitants of the city, threatening to consume your very essence.

There's pain everywhere, latent in the cities, by the street corners, at junctions, in buses, even in the churches. Religion, our opium, can't save this city, Lagos is past redemption. Take a walk through the busy streets of the Mainland, and try staring into the eyes of people you see. Depending on your powers of perception, you will find anguish in abundant supply. In some faces, it gets worse; they hold no expression, no feeling, no essence. They hold no life. Faith has deserted them, hope knows them not, even the basics of humanity they don't possess. They've seen their pain become despair, and the despair giving way to faithlessness, finally hope packed its bags, and fled their soul.

Then there are the stories. Sad enough to make the Devil cry. I've heard quite a number of them. Slowly, with each sad story that filters through me, a part of my humanity leaves, taking with it  my will to fight for a better tomorrow. I once heard the dehumanizing tale of a hungry homeless female who was raped all night by some street urchin who offered her help; N300 food. Couldn't seem to wrap my head around the depravity, and for 2 moments, my heart stopped moving while the stories streamed into me.  Then there are the regulars; the tales of inhumane suffering and misfortune that befall many a Lagosian. They've become a part of me, a dark depressing burden on my heart.

Was I wrong to leave the bright lights of Port Harcourt for the hustle of Lagos? Did I err by taking the flight bird to this land of opportunity and sadness? No I didn't. But days like these make me long for Port Harcourt, and its inherent petroleum wealth. I miss the willing pretty ladies, and the class that comes with the Niger Delta. I lay down, and every little detail and moment spent in PH City comes rushing in. How I miss them all. But returning home isn't an option….except there's a million-dollar job offer waiting for me with banks wide open.

For now it's “Buckle up Opeyemi Famakin. Amidst all the pain and sorrow, there's money to be made.”