Chapter 1: Hundred Naira Wahala

When I dey pick trash for street, na so I jam one street show.

Sweat dey drip for my neck as sun dey hammer my back. Sun dey roast my back, pepper seller dey shout price, okada horn dey scatter ear. Lagos no dey smile, but na so we dey survive. That day, hunger dey catch me like say e wan tear my belle. My throat dry, my leg dey shake, even my eye dey see double. But as I bend pick empty bottle for gutter, na so I jam the show. For Nigeria street, everyday fit bring wahala or miracle.

"Take this hundred naira, use am anyhow you like. Anything you buy, I go pay."

As the streamer give me the hundred naira, I smile small—relief just wash me. But as I collect am, I look am well—hope say no be ritual people dey do show for street now.

I fit feel say breeze blow enter my chest, remove one tiny load wey dey press me since morning. That kind small help sometimes fit be like big miracle for person wey dey ground.

Him no even know as I wan take use this hundred naira.

As I grip the money, my mind dey run: if dem know wetin dey my head, dem go fear. In this country, na survival first, then you fit talk morality. I look the streamer again, e face just dey shine for camera.

For front of over one hundred thousand people wey dey watch the livestream, I go use my clear eye kill three people, no fear, no shame.

If dem dey read my mind, na wahala be that. But I dey smile, make everything remain for my belle. Na so this Naija be—person fit dey suffer, but nobody go know the kind devil wey you dey fight.