THESE MEN: THE HUSBANDS OF THE STREET

Nothing boosts a woman's self-esteem as much as uneducated boys and perverted men. If you don't believe me, use public transportation or take a walk on the streets of Lagos.The cinnamon rolls of your belly suddenly become "their size," insinuating the bite they would like to take, and the toothpicks you call legs are the ones they want to wrap around their waists.Those men that advertise with microphones would sing your praises till your smile becomes as bright as the sun that's beating you with its heat. These men would marry you quicker than one could in Las Vegas — "my wife" as the national anthem. But of course, you never take them seriously, because you think that what happens on the streets of Lagos should remain in the streets of Lagos. Every female aspires to have the type of confidence that comes with driving a black Prado Jeep — the pride that comes with owning one, the self-assurance that rolls up as its windows roll down, and the wide smile the men that drive them always have when they utter the words, "Hi beautiful! Where are you headed?" These men would drive you to the moon and back, ever persistent to drop you off, their faith that you would eventually succumb knowing no bounds. Yet you walk faster, ignoring the loud cry of attention from the Jeep's horn.Self-affirmations and pep talks should be in every lady's purse, but these men in buses seem to carry them around more than you do — chanting "You can do this" under their breath just before they ask you for your number, mentally calculating if they can spare some change so they can pay your t-fare. These men just want a couple of digits and a possible future with you. So, you give them a fake number and let them pay, raising their hopes as you quickly jump into your next bus. You have had a long day, and you're eager to get home. But in all your haste, you could not ignore his voice. You heard it as soon as you entered the safety of your street — the same sermon he preaches over and over again: the street evangelist. "Give your life to Christ," he repeats with vigour — the same tone he used to declare to you that God told him you would give him yours and be his other half. His eyes linger on you as you greet his shadow with dust, his belief that you would come around almost as strong as his belief in God. You've resumed your work as the housewife, the bag of provisions in your hand not as heavy as your heart. Yet you dice and spice, adding just enough pepper to satisfy your man. The doorbell rings and he calls out to you, telling you to open the door. But the food isn't ready, and you wish you had more "thyme." Finally, you serve his meal and he begins to eat. That's when you remember — you forgot to add salt. You whisper a word of prayer, hoping he swallows his complaints with each spoonful. But his grumbling becomes louder than his starving stomach. In anger, he spits out the food and hurtful words. He picks up the dish and flings it away — the plate shattering along with the self-esteem you gained from your husbands of the street. Only then do you wish you had paid attention to these men.It’s 7 a.m., and you’ve just made your man's breakfast. You sit in the comfort of your kitchen, writing out your plan for the day—making sure to leave enough time to take a longer walk on the streets of Lagos on your way back from the market, just enough to rebuild your shattered ego.So, you set out with a purse filled with money and self-affirmations, your clothes starched with confidence, and an unwavering belief in your abilities—eager to meet these men: your husbands of the street.

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