Molue of Yeg

The woman who sat beside me had a yellow plastic bag. The woman who sat beside me did not say a word when I sat. The woman who sat beside me later left for the opposite seat. I am all alone in my little world again, while listening to Fela in the quietness of this city and its humid womb. Inside the bus, silence was chaotic as we trudged towards downtown. Outside, the sky revealed an orange lip, and the clouds gathered for the last evening ride. I thought about God and his winter schedule in the heat of July. At each stop, I remembered Lagos and its yellow symptoms. In my hand, I held a story about the scarcity of butterflies in the city where my mother once broke her spine, where most times the birds do not return home but are constantly in search of trees beside the ocean. My mother used to say if Lagos screams at you, you must scream back; that way, you know you are in exile.