Àlàájọ̀ Èkó - by Big Dee

I was on my own, just minding my business around Maryland, when Emeka called out to me. He looked completely worn out, his eyes sunken, his phone clutched in his palm like a lifesaver. I didn’t even bother stopping to hear him out. I already knew what his problem was, his girlfriend had called him the night before, complaining that her hair was ruined and she needed twenty-five thousand naira immediately. Emeka was standing there sweating, terrified he’d have to break into his ajo contribution money just to keep her happy. Such an unserious human being. I just hissed, shook my head, and walked right past him.A few streets down, near the bus stop, I bumped into a guy sitting on an overturned plastic crate by the gutter. He had an open bottle of Sniper balanced between his knees, staring into it like it held the secret to the universe. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he looked up at me as I passed, his eyes wide and waiting, as if he expected me to grab his arm and give him some long, emotional speech. I just stared back at him. You’re trying to run away from a LAPO loan? Who is going to pay the debt for you? I didn't have time for the nonsense. Unserious fellow. I kept moving.But not everyone I ran into that day was playing games like Emeka and the rest. Take Chief Adedayo, for instance. He was extraordinarily weak that morning. The air in his master bedroom was heavy, thick with the smell of expensive eucalyptus rubs, rubbing alcohol, and pure panic. His firstborn son was practically on his knees on the rug, weeping and begging the private doctor, promising to double—no, triple—whatever fee he wanted if he could just get the old man to open his eyes again. The doctor just kept looking at his wrist watch, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. I stood quietly at the corner of the bed, right by the mahogany headboard, watching the heavy, uneven rises of Chief’s chest start to smooth out. They were still bargaining, throwing big numbers around the room, completely unaware that the transaction was already closed. The receipt had been issued.Then there was Dupe. She lived in a narrow compound at Sabo, on the Lagos mainland, and worked as a teller at one of those commercial banks where they treat humans like machines. I arrived at her apartment building just in time. She was sitting on her cold tiled floor in her crisp, white corporate shirt, her fingers trembling violently as she tried to untie her silk neck scarf. Her eyes were fixed on the slow rotation of the ceiling fan above her. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps while her work phone buzzed endlessly on the glass coffee table... another urgent, angry email from her branch manager. She turned her head, looked toward the open doorway, and saw me standing there. She didn't scream. She didn't even flinch. She just let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled in her chest, as if to say, finally.Down at the market, Mama Sikira was sitting on a low wooden bench right behind her tall, neat mountain of dried pepper. She looked like she was just taking a light afternoon nap, her head resting against a sack of onions. All around her, the market was screaming with life—conductors shouting for Ojuelegba, women bickering over the price of croaker fish, heavy aluminum basins clattering against the pavement. Her daughter was standing just three feet away, busy tying garri into transparent nylon bags, completely oblivious, occasionally calling out, "Customer, come buy!" I walked over, skirted around the pepper sacks, and sat right beside Mama Sikira. She didn't stir when the noise reached a deafening peak. She didn't even twitch when a bluebottle fly landed right on her cheek and stayed there. She was completely at peace, far away from the heat, the dust, and the endless struggle to balance her daily ledger.And finally, I stopped by the express near the pedestrian bridge, where a young boy in a sharp, cheap blue suit was standing at the edge of the curb. He was late for a job interview—his fourth one this month. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his shiny black shoes covered in a thin layer of roadside dust, his fingers nervously straightening his tie every two seconds. He kept checking his phone screen, watching the minutes tick away, debating whether to risk it and dash across the six-lane highway to catch the bus waiting on the other side. He took a deep, shaky breath, stepped off the curb, and looked left. I stepped up right beside him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder before his second foot could touch the asphalt. He froze. He looked sideways at me, and all the panic in his eyes just melted into a strange, heavy quiet. His shoulders dropped. The rush was over.People call me all sorts of things depending on where and how we cross paths.They bind me in prayer houses, shout against me in church, and pretend I’m some faraway stranger in a dark cloak with a scythe. But as you can see, I’m really not that deep. I’m just a businessman doing my rounds on these Lagos streets.I don't have time for drama, and I certainly don't waste effort on people taking life for cruise like Emeka and his hair money, or that boy by the gutter making noise with a Sniper bottle. I only deal with serious-minded clients. People who are actually ready for business.Allow me to properly reintroduce myself.I am the quiet that follows the noise.If you still haven't figured out who's been talking to you this whole time, go ahead and read this again. Only this time, make sure your doors and windows are locked.Not that it changes anything for me—I have another appointment down the street to catch anyway, and when I return, locks open all on their own.See you around.

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