“Take your bag, fool,” the security man’s rustled words stumped on Kimono, accompanied with a thud from the bag of space food sticks. Chinese space food sticks. Though stout and athletic, his gait was anchored on a very high centre of gravity right now. Six bottles of Gulder beer and two agbara bitters can offset even a Goliath stance.
The street that hosted the bar was dark and dirty from the millions of feet that trampled on it in the day when it was a market. The buildings were store fronts, but this night the upturned tables of the traders shielded the profane acts of illicit sex workers and young men given to crack. Little wonder they say the dark forces sell the marketplace at night.
As Kimono dragged his drunk self and fifteen kilogrammes rucksack towards the Badagry Expressway, the neon-eyes of approaching vehicles blinded his already compromised vision, and like a miscalibrated robot rushed ahead for a tech expo, Kimono took a big jump from dry land into a large pond of smelly water, to the amusement of the dark elements of the night.
Two months had passed since Kimono clicked on that flashing classified advert, which seemed at the time to be mocking his simpleton hustle. He wasn't shy to concede that his hardship was simply his punishment for lack of proper information, and went on to build his aspirations around this new discovery. By his judgement he had found something that was novel to his environment, had functionality and possessed a psychological appeal. Kimono was sure space food sticks will be a bang. He would often go to megastores in the city to ask for space food, even when he didn't carry a dime on him, just so he could enjoy that blank look of the attendants as they all confessed they didn't even know what that was. Gotchya.
“I mean the whole of Lagos hasn't heard of it. Just google 'space food.’” His voice with a slight wisp that seemed to leak through his spaced teeth and scarcely meeting lips, as he tried to convince his friend to invest in his new business.
“Leave that one,” he retorted, “many products are selling in this country without NAFDAC registration.” Kimono guarded his dreams from whatever concerns that cast any shadow on them.
At 32 Kimono was under intense pressure to keep up with the expectations of his society. The years hadn't rewarded him proportional to his potentials and efforts. Once the young man whose peers envied for his talent and all-roundness, now he couldn't even stay in his class’ Facebook group because every member's post reminded him of how far behind he was.
Back home the pressure was surmounting. His only brother was gradually losing it to the streets. “Ekene will wake up in the morning,” his mum had called to complain, “first thing he is at the betting centre that just opened at the junction. He doesn't even have his bath anymore.” And his father. Through the years Kimono had scampered through without any real gameplan. He had apprenticed as an electrician, taught in an elementary school, and had a degree in Political Science. But Kimono knew exactly what he didn't want to become. Anything close to his father: a paraplegic village jester given to drinking, who lost his mobility to an avoidable accident resulting from his relationship with the green bottle. Yet every evening he hosted his look-alike friends under the orange tree at one corner of their rented ikenga apartment - the walls were made from red earth and covered with a thin layer of cement plastering, to look like a brick house; and no ceiling under the rusty, corrugated zinc roof.
Will Lagos be forgiving of his stop-light-research? He had ordered palettes of space food stick from a Chinese merchant on Alibaba. He used up his savings and took loans from few friends with promises of huge interests. The goods arrived in their Chinese alphabet sleeves, but Kimono was too excited about his new business that he scarcely gave thoughts to that. He tried a few of those, but couldn't tell if they were nice or not. Of course there was no reference for comparison as he only just saw space food on the internet.
This is the first of a two part series. I dedicate this one to my chums 
