I am...

I am the unheard, the one who doesn’t make laws.

The one trampled by the 'lords'.

The unknown who never shows up on election posters.

The one they call 'the masses'.

The most hit of all crisis.

The onlooker, staring yet with hope.  

The center of all jokes.

The patient, who waits still for the rain.

Even when water is wasted down the drain.

The worker, who tills at all weather, even at summer.

The victim, the one shot by the stray bullet.

The one caught up by accident.

The prosecuted, sentenced for the crime of the free criminals.

The undermined, thought less of, yet represented at the assembly. 

The 'infidel', publicly bombed before the security forces.

Yet called a pro-democratic martyr, for undefined causes.

The minimum wage earner, hoping for my 18k.

While lawmakers await their 18mill.

I am the un-tarred road that carries little hope.

The path un-threaded, left for weeds and shrubs.

I am the aborted child, forsaken yet happy I wasn’t born to suffer.

I am the thumbprint cast on the ballot paper for a just cause.

For a man… and not the party.

For the truth…not for anarchy. 

I am the country divided by religious flames.

The victims with no names.

I am the account with N10billion short… for the pocket that never gets enough.

I am the vision 20-20-20,

Propelled with a tank so empty.

I am the seed, I am the hope.

I am Nigeria, I am me.

My Life, My Lagos.

The rush kicks off at 4:30 am in a hurry to outrun traffic.

Driving out in the dark morning seems awkward, but very much a common event in the lives of the residents of this western town.

Vehicles all headed in one direction as though the whistle has been blown.

Struggle for slots in the traffic: a much attributable fact for the #danfo drivers as the LASTMA looks out for the scape-goat among the herd of Black-striped-yellow goats as the blue horses joyfully gallop along the corridor separated by the casting or the yellow lines.

The conventional cars look up to the government owned buses in disgust as they swiftly race through traffic, while they angrily see the red lights on the behind of the cars in front of them, crawling as fast as the snail.

We have been told to learn how to be as organized as the soldier ants... I didn't think they meant traffic wise.

Gala hawkers and recharge card sellers already stationed by the road with faith that you'd get tired and hungry and would have to call your boss to let him know you'd be late.

Angry commuters at BRT bus stops looking at filled buses even as standers aligned like "sardines" are looking back and hoping the "pilot" doesn't pick anymore.

Ladies having their “make-up” session as they ride on, sleepers; who must have woken up before the day began, are being compensated for lost hours of rest. Motor fumes from exhaust pipes suffocate your perfume.

Okada riders racing like it was the MotoGP season. Meandering through any space whatsoever. Between an articulated vehicle and the BRT.

Between the luxury buses and the oil tankers.

Between the keke and the truck pushers.

Even between the pedestrians and the onlookers.

Conductors’ voices overshadow one another as calls for destinations sound louder than the roars of the engines.

Sirens heard from the behind of the line forcing its way through to the front, distorting the flow of the "hard-labored" formation. Even as “bloody-civilian” opportunists and danfo drivers join in the hot pursuit of time-saving.

We rush out of our houses as though we are being chased off to get to work and then couple of hours later, we rush off the work place like we just realized it was the enemy and not the former. Only to go through the same process but this time, we are facing the other way.

God help us!