One day Chiamaka was pricing eggs by herself and was in the middle of the market, just like a person trying to solve a difficult mathematics problem.
The woman selling eggs was impatient, “Madam, are you buying or not?” she asked.
Chiamaka blinked. “Yes, yes… I am going to purchase.”
“Then stop staring at the eggs like they offended you.”
Some traders in the vicinity smirked.
Chiamaka took a big bite at her lips and made a smile appear, getting out a little piece of paper on which she had recorded her monthly budget. Transport, Food, Rent contribution, Data subscription, Electricity bill, All the objects were numbered.Each object was accompanied by a number. But still, the cash in her account was always gone, as though it had been poured into burning hot rocks.
She was just three months ago excited to have come out of University in Ilorin. From afar, Lagos looked gorgeous; its lights sparkling, its roads bustling with activity, and its people walking boldly. Now, though, living inside a small self-contained apartment with peeling paint and clingy mosquitoes in Yaba, life in the city felt like a machine that devoured money on a daily basis.
She chose the less stocky of the crates of eggs.
The woman replied, "It's a good choice. “You’re learning.”
Learning.
Chiamaka was always accompanied by that word.
She was studying to get up at 4:30 a.m. to get on a bus, before the masses get on. One of the lessons she learned as an intern in a small media company was to be able to smile when customers are rude. Know how to prepare soup that would last for 3 days. Making believe not to be tired during phone calls with mother.
Most nights she would sit on her narrow bed with the laptop on her legs and gaze at job applications.
“Tragic to inform you…”
“Unfortunately…”
"With so many applicants"
It was polite to get the rejection e-mails, but it wasn't long before they all seemed like insults.
One evening, she came home as a result of the rain after being held in the traffic for more than 2 hours. As she was climbing up the stairs, her sandals made squelching noises.
Her neighbour, Aunty Bisi, was fanning herself outside of her room.
“Ah-ah, Chiamaka!” she exclaimed. You look like someone that swam from the mainland!
Chiamaka laughed weakly.
When you come into the house come and collect stew first,” Aunty Bisi said. “I cooked too much.”
"No, Aunty, it's alright,"
"If I don't, then I'll think of something better."
The woman gave her a little bowl of food wrapped up in foil.
In her chamber, Chiamaka quietly sat with the bowl in her hand. The air in the room was filled with the aroma of fried fish and pepper. Her eyes suddenly got hot.
She missed home.
There was always noise at home in Enugu: her younger brothers loudly talking about the TV, her dad yelling football commentary, and her mom tapping out old worship songs while cooking the meals. Not one of them asked her what the maths total had worked out to be.
Her phone rang.
It was Amira, her best friend.
“You must be tired, Amira,” I replied at once.
“I am tired.”
“How bad?”
Chiamaka leapt onto the bed in a dramatic fashion. I almost shed a tear because some one gave me stew.
Amira made a loud noise and laughed.Amira made a noise and laughed.
“I’m serious!”
“You're now an adult,” Amira chortled between laughter.
Chiamaka groaned. If it's adulthood, I want my money back.”
Finally, they both laughed and the pressure in her chest subsided a bit.
“So how’s work?” Amira asked.
Chiamaka hesitated. "My boss had me come to his office today."
“And?”
So he asked me, “Why did my energy decrease?”
“What did you say?”
“That's why, I told him, I've cut my energy down too, NEPA.”
Chiamaka pulled the phone out of her ear, as she laughed so loudly.
“But I really am, Chiamaka said softly, “But seriously.”
“I know.”
"I thought that I would get everything very clear right after school."
"Who said that lie to you?"
Chiamaka had to smile because she didn't want it to happen.
It rained outside, and the water was steady dripping from the roof outside.
The following morning her alarm did not go off. She woke up late, became panicky, put on mismatching socks and ran to the bus stop without breakfast.
The bus conductor gazed at her sad face.
“Sister, they're giving you some pepper in Lagos?”
She laughed breathlessly. “Very hot pepper.”
Something out-of-the-ordinary occurred at work.
Her manager phoned her once again.
This time he passed him a piece of paper.
They are not leaving,” he said, “we're having two interns that are staying full-time.” “Congratulations.”
But Chiamaka continued to gaze at him.
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
She was unable to talk for a while.
She then finally whispered, "Thank you, sir.
Lagos caught her at the moment she was leaving the office and he looked totally different. The same cackling taxi drivers, danfo buses that hollered, the same noisy roads, but lighter.
That night she went and purchased herself shawarma from a road side stand that she normally would have avoided due to its high cost, “too expensive.” She sat out in the dark under a winking light as the traffic meandered by.
Her cell phone rang again.
Mum.
Her mother, being as warm as ever with her, asked, “My daughter, how was your day?”
Chiamaka gazed at the busy street, the fumes from the nearby Sua stands, the weary faces rushing home.
“That's OK,” she replied.
“Where is your diet good?”
“Yes.”
“Resting?”
“A little.”
Her mother paused. “You sound stronger.”
Chiamaka smiled quietly.
Maybe she was.
Not for the sake of less hassle. The bills were yet to be let out. Next month, the landlord will still ask questions regarding the land. Even then the traffic in Lagos would seem like a punishment from heaven.
Much like the rain on the bus stop, much like the rejection letter she received, she had changed without realizing.
Chiamaka no longer felt like an outsider outside adulthood, for the first time since he had moved to Lagos.
She was in it now, as everyone else was: tired and struggling and laughing and surviving.