He is on a mission to conquer a scorching sun, bad tempered traffic wardens, hungry policemen, mad danfo drivers, thieving street kids, jaundiced security guards, and intellectually tattered receptionists- all of whom stand between him and the next naira to be earned.
He would get to the bus-stop to meet market women with ugu wrapped in threadbare sacs, female bankers clutching their bags close to their chests, and artisans reeking of leftover alcohol and fresh marijuana.
An okada would stop in front of him; he would shake his head. He is taking the bus today.
In the bus, he would sit next to the banker who would pull out her android phone to continue with a day-old chat. He would peep into the phone and read: “but you know I have a boyfriend…”
He would take his eyes off and try to grab some sleep without success. The conductor would ask for his money. He would dip his hand into his pocket and realise he has no change. The conductor would rant, throw his hand in the air and hiss long and hard.
There would be traffic, somewhere- anywhere. The cause of it would be unknown but it would swallow 55 minutes of the morning and leave a worn expression on his face.
The Lagos Bobo wouldget off the bus with his change and insults from the conductor that will trail him all the way to his office. He would be 20 minutes late. A journey that should take him 37 minutes to work, takes him 2hours and a bottle of La Casera.
Every morning in traffic he buys a bottle to quench his grief and refresh his good sense.
He would get to his cubicle. As usual there’ll be no electricity and the generator would be the voice in his head, telling him to kill someone. The endless bitter ruckus, like a nagging girlfriend, that gives electricity but takes his sanity away.
He would stare at his computer; log on to Facebook and announce his arrival into a new day with a post: “Thank God for the start of a new day. I am alive. He is God.” Then he would add a selfie to crown this effort.
The Lagos Bobo has not been paid for the last month. He earns a neat N189,965. His bosses are saving N30,000 from his pay cheque in a scheme that did not particularly need his permission; so he goes home with approximately N150,000 every month.
He drinks beer, he has a flatscreen TV, a saloon car he “warms” every morning but drives only on weekends. He has a girlfriend and two side-chicks.
The Lagos Bobo is always hanging on the threshold of lack. There’s just never enough money, just a lot of meetings and a lot of social media swagger.
His boss would summon him. She is a woman and he has thought of sex with her in many positions- on top of her expensive polished table, in her toilet- near the sink, at the backseat of her SUV, by the corner of the reception where the ugly receptionist puts her used bowls of ewa agoyin, and last but not least in the generator house with all the noise to hush her screams, and engine oil to serve as lubricant for uninhibited sex.
He is brought back to his senses with a slam of files on her desk.
“Are you alright?” she asks, and he bows slightly, “yes, ma.”
She would dismiss him without any mention of his salary.
By 2.30pm the heat would be unbearable in the cubicle; he would loosen his tie and buy another La Casera with one meat pie for lunch.
His side-chick will call by 4.15pm- the one he met on twitter. They will talk about nothing in particular. She would call to hear his voice and hope for something in it that could assure her the sex they shared last week was a natural progression into a relationship, but he would keep the conversation on a straight line.
By 5.05pm he would call his girlfriend who earns more and by all social standings, is too good to be with him. But the Lagos Bobo is a handsome fella, and it gives a good ring to it when he mentions he has a cool girlfriend and a J.O.B.
He does a mental note to get her a bottle of chocolate wine by weekend.
He would close from work after doing a handful of this-and-that and head to a bar to caress a bottle of beer as he quietly waits for traffic to subside.
He is a football fanatic, owns two bank accounts (one definitely GTB), with barely enough in both accounts to buy a crate of soft drinks. He spends an unhealthy amount of time loafing on Facebook and Twitter to worry about the realities of life.
By 7.08pm he would call his second side-chick. He has an erection and a handful of sperm stored in the epididymis that he would like to bequeath her with.
“Whassup nah?” That’s the catch-line.
She would be at his door by 7. 28pm; smelling of talcum powder. She is his landlord’s daughter, with tiny tribal marks and an ass that can swallow up a G-string.
He would open the door and she would immediately find something to play with- the remote control always comes first before his penis.
“Any beer in your fridge?” she would ask, Vaseline on her lips, powder on her neck.
He would ignore her request, lift her up from his couch and push her head down in-between his legs.
She would take the time to remind him of the five thousand naira she asked for two weeks ago. He would nod, close his eyes and push her head in until he can feel his glans almost choking her.
He deserves this high; or he might buckle under Lagos pressure one day and fucking kill someone, literally.