THE HUSTLE IS REAL

Imagine you arrived at the bus terminal on your way home from work, and realized that due to the just subsiding heavy downpour, the regular ₦100 T-fare had hiked up double. As per one who spends by budget, you decided to wait for a bus that’d stick to the usual. Quickly, you joined the company of like-minded commuters. From discussing the state of the country, to the plight of an average African man, time sped by unnoticed.

Swaapppssss!!!

That was a splash of muddy mix of sand and water from a Toyota highlander that ran into a pothole. 

‘Baba Olowo, eti ya were(Big man, you have gone man),’ an angry voice dashed after the jeep's bumper as it zoomed off.

Drenched already, you just didn’t bother. It’d only be painful if at last you gave up extra ₦100
‘Ojuelegba! Wole pelu 100 nai…’ the bus conductor's voice hung mid-sentence as crowds raced towards the bus. The squeeze and slam of struggling bodies  against the yellow Danfo bus could dent it silly.
You made it through the rush that almost cost a leg and got a comfortable seat by the window on the first row. The striking pain at the ankle joint, peppery sensation that ran down your right knee were indications you have suffered some bruises. But with the satisfaction of saving ₦100, you gave no thought to it. The hustle is real, shit happens.
At the revving sound of the bus’s engine came the hoarse voice of the conductor, ‘gbe bodi e oga mi. Owo lati waju, mi o ni change o.’

Before it got to your turn, you reached for your wallet at the hip pocket of your damp trouser, and out came your limpy, empty hand. You dug in again, fumbled there for what seemed an eternity. At last it came out again, empty. You were sure you’d it at the terminal. Awash with a blend of confusion and disbelief, you went for other pockets, as if some teleporting had taken place, even reached for your breast pocket that you could never have placed anything, not to talk of a wallet. Though hard to swallow, it dawned clearly your pocket had been picked. Along came the Bus conductor. With bloodshot eyes tossed at you, and a clear-cut gesture sent in your direction, ‘Oga, wey your money?’, you heard him say.           Now, that's an awkward moment.

The one wey go be serious gbege be say make you don almost late for 8am job interview. As you dey waka like person wey catch fire to try beat time, na so you hurry enter sharp corner.

Gbussshhhiii!

You rush Jam omo eléyi (egg-seller) wey balance her 5crates of eggs on top head. Na that time You go no say  wahala don dey, say you don buy early momo market as she go tey lock your chassis, gatorless shirt, dey rock you back and forth to a continuous rhythm of a well composed ‘hmmm…Broda, efun mi lowo eyin mi o. Aijebe…hmmm, eeni lobikankan leni o'(Brother, give me the money for my eggs o. If not, you are going no where).

I am Kayode Shittu, alias Kaysnaps. I snap pictures for a living. Its been over 10years now since I have been that. I learnt the art of holding camera during a strike action in my undergraduate days. Uh oh! am I forgetting my profession? Must be because I am more a photographer than a lawyer. In fact, but for the certificate I bagged from the university of Ibadan in 1999, I have nothing to show for law. Perhaps my wig and robe that lay dumped somewhere in my wardrobe sha. 

Who says education is not important? But in the Nigeria of today, if you don’t have a skill or learn a handiwork alongside, my brother, you are sitting on a time bomb.

After barely surviving life on the Tashere I made on charge & bail, affidavit, I decided to focus my energy on  photography. Wherever I go, be it --Church, school, any occasion, I go with my Camera, as job opportunity could come up at any time.

Here in Lagos, weekdays may be dry for we photographers, with nothing much to do, not so weekends. With the many owambes that happens around, especially on Saturdays, there is usually more than enough pose & snap to go round. For a photographer, if you are specially  invited to cover an event, good  for you. And if it's a case of mogbomoya, nothing do you. Na to get money tey wack be the koko. So either of the two, all join.

I was on a mogbomoya job, when I met with one of such awkward moments cited earlier. But the good news is, this one made me and stuck with me ever since.

One tactics of the job is to leave contacts with managers of halls and event centres, who reach us whenever an event is to hold at their halls. And if you are wise enough, you know to give kola at the end of a job. I made sure to do this, so I can be reached when next an event comes up.

That Friday evening in May 2003, I was in my one room apartment in Lawanson, Surulere, Lagos state, preparing my equipments. Like an hungry vulture about going in search of a readymade dead meat, I was getting ready to go scout for job the following day, when a young boy from Madam Kowope came in and dropped an invitation card of an event for the next day. Knowing that was a sure bet and I wouldn’t need scavenging around anymore, I was so excited.

Madam Kowope ran a phone call business centre nearby. It was the early days of Global System for Mobile Communication(GSM) in Nigeria. Just few buoyant and opportune citizens had mobile phones. I was damn far from the few. In fact, to make ₦20 per minute call hard me many times. Where I wan tey see money buy GSM?
Those were the days I  go with stopwatch to make calls at business centre. At 53secs, pimn! I click on the red button. It was Madam Kowope's shop address and GSM number I give to hall managers. She served as the middleman. And I drop her own kola as well after a job well done.

The card was from the manager of  rendezvous event center. It was for a wedding ceremony. I skipped down the rectangular card, and there was the time and venue-- service at Saint John Anglican church, Itire for 10am, reception follows immediately after at rendezvous hall, Ikeja.

30mins before the time, I was already at the venue. As expected, you'd most likely find many  women standing about tying their gele or before cars' side mirrors applying makeup. I seize such moments to advertise my trade.

How women love to receive compliments!

Trust my mouth, it can make a woman in 70years old skin get an ecstatic feeling of a sweet sixteen. When it goes like, ‘Sweet Mummy, you look muah! Only a full length picture can do justice to your beautiful appearance, never a mirror. Just a shot, and  you’d get a picture you'd rather frame and hang on the wall of your living-room than add to your album.’ As though they always need some sort of validation, virtually all women fall for this, even the ugly ones.

By the end of the service that Saturday, I had used up a film and had another in my Camera, rolling.

Waoh!

That much at the Church service, how much more to come? In anticipation, my head went into calculation, I  looked forward to the reception like it was my wedding day. That, was a good sign of greater prospect ahead. If only I could truly read signs, it could as well have meant a bad omen.

All charged with loads of enthusiasm, I sent Jerry to Megapixel(a photo studio at Mafoluku) to get the used up photo film developed.
Jeremiah Obe was a young teenager in my neighborhood, a secondary school dropout who got fascinated with seeing me go about with a camera and began latching onto me to learn a thing or two. Like an apprentice, I take him along for jobs.

As soon as I got to the reception, I went about the usual advertising, passing head-swelling compliments to attract customers. God so good, I soon started clicking away flashes here and there.
The customers I’d made earlier at the church began asking for their pictures. I kept assuring it was on the way. I went about my business with no worries. Jerry was tested, trusted and reliable. He’d been on a good number of jobs with me with no hitch on his part. Fortunately, Megapixel was just two public buses away, I was confident he’d soon return.

When at about one and the half hour into the reception party and Jerry had not shown up, I became disturbed. It was unlike him.

What’s happening?

Multiple thoughts sprang up on my mind. I eased away the negative ones and concluded he must have met with delay at the studio. However, anxiety began building when some customers  demanded their pictures, saying they’d soon be leaving. There was no way I could reach Jerry. And I didn’t want to opt for going over to the studio, I feared we could miss each other. While contemplating, an elderly couple; both dressed in same green ankara print called my attention. I thought my services was needed. On getting to their table, I realized they were customers I'd made earlier who wanted their pictures, as they were about leaving. A wave of impending loss washed over me. I was there to make money and not an album with collection of strangers. At that point, I needed to do something, and do it fast. Going over to the studio was all I could think of. As I took my leave, I leaped off like a gazelle through narrow path that separated long rows of tables to the left and to the right, couldn’t afford to walk…wished I could sprout wings.
I'd gone halfway out the hall when a voice from behind brought me to a halt. I turned around and there few tables away to my right was a male customer gesturing for his picture. I also responded with a gesture indicating he’d have it soon. As I spun around to be on my way, crackkhhh! I bumped into one of the service girls in white long sleeve top and black pant trouser, carrying a wide China stainless tray with wraps of semo  and plates of ewedu soup. Asides the spattering bath of the soup on the girl’s white top, the tray tipped off her hands and a plate of soup didn’t make it to the floor but tumbled over and gave a young lady seated nearby a hot shower.

Everywhere went haaa!

Attention shifted from the front that’d the newly wedded couple to the right, the bandstand to the left; performing commander Ebenezer obey's  ‘Eto igbeyawo', the MC at the middle with the distinguished guests on the high table behind him, to the scene of the incident.
In a moment pause, soup-coated morsels ranging from black amala to white semo and spooned varieties of coloured rice hung midair as all eyes swung in my direction. I’d never been more embarrassed in my life, little knowing that was just a preamble.

The young lady at the center of the mess wasn’t wearing a headgear. Her well plaited hairdo was in a zigzag pattern, waves of crests and troughs(baring her scalp) ran from the front to the back of her head.
On landing on her frontal,  the blend of pepper and ewedu first settled on the crestform, mingled with the hair, seeped deep down and spread out the scalp.

‘Are you blind?’ someone at a table nearby said angrily.

Though those words had been directed at me, they were most appropriate for the young lady with eyes tightly shut and mouth screaming ‘yeeh, ataa, ojú mí o, yeeh, ojú nta mí o'(…pepper, my eyes…it’s peppering me).

Her hands went flip-flop as though conducting an orchestra at an allegro pace. Her body danced restlessly to the unending peppery sensation in her eyes. Hurriedly, I helped her to her feet, held one of her arms while a woman held the other. We supported her out the hall, accompanied by people who must just see a drama to the end.
Almost all the step of the way, I apologized for the hurt and embarrassment I'd cost her.
Still within the building was a backyard where used party dishes were washed, and there was a running tap. We rushed her towards it. With a mild detergent from the dishwashers applied to her face and washed off, her pepper-shot eyes soon began opening. After more rinsing and repeated blinks, her eyes opened. Since I was the one standing directly by her side applying water, I was her first clear sight.

‘Aunty, I am so sor…,’ I was still saying when her hand went for my face in a flash.

It felt like set of twinkle, twinkle little stars dancing around my vision, a brief moment of darkness settled like mist. The wappp! sound of her palm that covered the right side of my face was as though Sango was depicted in my sight.
Thick cloud of tears gathered in a rush at the corners of my eyes, it was going to rain.

‘Not today,’ I told myself, ‘Not before this crowd of spectators'. With every ounce of will, I drew it back.

‘Háha, auntie, wón sha ti bè yín(But he has apologized),’ said a male voice.

‘ìgbàyen wá nkó(And so what),’ a female voice countered.

The eyes of the lady in question locked with mine, I could read something in her dark eyes, whether it was remorse or an itch to stamp her palm again like before, I couldn’t exactly tell. It’d better not be the latter. Wit.h that, I was certain to be recommended a hearing aid. The whistling sound like the north wind that filled my ear from the first impact had not ceased.

That time, I’d reached saturation point, my glands were nudging at the walls of my cornea as if jiving to the beat of Majek Fashek's ‘send down the rain'.

Make I no go rubbish manhood for public.

I apologized once again, took quick steps away from the place. On setting the first foot out of the building, tears rolled down my face in two streams. Through the prism of tears, I saw a blurry figure of Jerry way off as he approached. From the Jaded steps he took towards me, I knew something had gone wrong. I’d guessed right he met with delay at Megapixel studio, rarely was the place not crammed with customers on Saturdays. Asides that, the bus he boarded developed fault. He’d used up all the money on him and had to trek almost half the way.

Quickly, we rushed into the hall, but it was too late. Most of our customers had left. Out of 36 photos worth of film, we could only deliver 8. That was a colossal loss, never incurred such before.

As we were about leaving, the lady I gave the soup bath who landed me a heavy slap in return came over and apologized for the way she reacted. Then I got to know she was one of the event planners—she was in charge of the service girls, made the three tier wedding cake and decorated the hall. She introduced herself as Funke Onigbinde. She was into event planning and was kind of made.
We exchanged contact— while I scribbled Madam Kowope's GSM no and office address on a piece of paper, she just handed me her business card.

Meeting Funke was a big break for me. If not every week, she got jobs every other and connected me as  photographer for many of these events.
At a point, I began looking forward to seeing more of her than I did the jobs. The frequency of meeting at occasions and working together afforded us the opportunity of getting to know each other better.

From her slim figure, moderately widened hip, I could tell she was in her mid-twenties; either 25or26. True to my guess, she was to clock 26 the following month. I got to know she also finished from university of Ibadan, studied business administration. She graduated 2years after I did.

Guys, na so funke maamaa her senior alumnus slap o

Funke had been baking for special occasions about 3years before she gained admission, learnt catering and decoration while on campus. That alone could explain how a girl her age could be that established, and with such business clout.

After over a year of clinching jobs here and there, one event came where I was the groom and Funke, the bride. I can’t say it was the grandest of all, but we gave it our best since it was our own thing. That was in Mid July, 2004. It's 8years counting since we tied the knot. Asides event planning, Funke now runs a catering school where she graduates at least 20students annually. I also own a standard  studio with workforce of 11, asides apprentices. It started with photography and graduated into  videography as well.

One thing I can say is, without education, we can’t be where we are today. With only education, we couldn’t have achieved that much.

Besides the satisfaction that comes with doing what you are passionate about; that keeps you going through thick and thin, the peace, security, you also have the time when you can rest and give yourself a treat without being bossed around.

Reminds me of one of many such times. At about 7am on that Thursday morning, we'd prepared our 3 children for school and their school bus had come for them, when June’s wind suddenly stirred with a howling whistle. The atmosphere was as though we’d switched to night time, bringing along a cozy live-in air best spent in bed. We were still finding footings at the time of our wedding and couldn’t get to experience the thing called ‘honeymoon’.  Taking a day off or half to catch up on something of such wouldn’t cost a thing. I was still only suggesting through whispers close to her ear, and presto! we were all over each other, nighties slipped off as quick and as easy as getting a cloth of the hanger. Longing hands went hungrily after throbbing parts, exploring through the dark, working slow grasps rhythmically through soft-molded contours and well-chiseled curves, onto up and down glides like two smokey quartz over each other. The heat generated sent the cool environ into a barricade of four corner spectators, and our fluffy bed, a stage. A scene of rustling movements, moaning sounds went on for a while. Uh oh! sorry Guys, what happens under the duvet, stays under…

What?

Why that look?

Don’t tell me you want details. Movie is rated 18, Finito!.

Okay—okay—okay—okay--okay

After the whole wickety-wickety wack, I turned her on her face, squatted over as though about giving a deep aromatherapy massage, slid down her lower torso  with sweaty, slimy hands, then lifted her…oops! curtain drawn. 18 and above, reach me for lowdown with acceptable proof of age. Haa--haa—haa.😁😁😁

So guys, you are safe with white collar jobs. But alongside a skill or vocation, you are safer.

Peace out ✌                                 

Olagoke Ajanaku
                      @2019
Twitter handle : @OlagokeAjanaku
Gee4christ87@gmail.com
www.readlordgoks.blogspot.com
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