The breeze was moist, the weather was chilly, the rain was about to fall but the universe was not done talking to me. It had one last message for the evening.
I smelt it and saw it before I heard it. Five years in Ekosodin and I could sniff it kilometers away. A woman drew close with her 'igbo' glowing red as she took a prolonged drag.
As she walked, her hands 'scattered', her swing in total disharmony with her feet. Who was this stranger? As she drew closer, she became quite familiar (not in the I've-met-you-before way). What was so familiar about this stranger?
Her muscles bulged, her head seemed large, her dreads brought memories of Medusa, some lazily drooping down her shoulders, and her funny looking sleeveless gown, like she'd escaped from a preg ward.
Boom! Show time over. The thunder sounded the alarm. I was about turning when she bawled.
"THIS LIFE NA ONE O!"
The message. I heard it now. The voice so thick like the thunder did some quick lending.
And then I SAW it. The realization sending thrill chills up my spine. She was a man. My eyes flew to her groin area and my eyes popped. A man. In a woman's gown . With no shoes. And large dreadlocks.
"Na craze man," someone closeby said. But I heard the universe's whispers.
Rain. I took my phone with Fela's 'Beasts of No Nation' playing through my headset, walked scatteredly past two ladies and shouted along, 'Na craze man be that.' Their speed of separation evoked a laughter.
"This one don kolo o. Fine boy like this."
Fela wasn't done singing. Neither was I. "Na craze world be this." The rain drummed in acknowledgement. They zoomed past me, running from the rain, but I remembered the message and walked on, increasing my pitch as I went. Drenched.
They call him 'Pastor'. They say he's a craze man. I hope he knows he's just won a convert.
For if they call the master so, what shall the servant be called?
- Dr. Fluid
