Prostitutes first caught my sight.
Lover of the female form as I am, I have never been so revolted at the femme as I was at the malnourished, malapportioned, bits of skin attired in a form vaguely female, jostling for their clientele.
Deformity soon seemed far from aberrant and was upon longer scrutiny the norm.
From the porters bearing unbearable loads on uneven limbs, to the beady-eyed, mouth-foaming profiteer, boss of the porters who screws them out of a decent pay, after their tedium.
I find a place to charge my phone for a fee and I can’t tell if world weariness, the recession, this harsh environment or a combination of the afore is responsible for the operator’s lack of chill.
Not a modicum could be had as he screamed at me the price and other instructions necessary to charge my device. Nor was chill found when he fought a man over (an unpaid bill of) N70 and tore N1,000 note from said man’s hand in the process.
Poetic justice maybe this was, because the loser of N1,000 was our greedy, porter-exploiting boss from earlier.
SMH, I couldn’t even laugh at any of these occurrences. Cursed with a brooding temperament and an oversensitivity to societal ill I am. So I started thinking…
I’m far from rich. Born into poverty may not be an apt description of my circumstance, but lack has always been my neighbour.
Nonetheless, I witnessed on this night, in this 30m stretch of street, the low lows, the depraved depravity that lack engenders.
That Man has failed is my conclusion.
There is no remedy for our condition.
To be prone to such… just due to the extant externalities is a chilling thought.
Nietzsche was right, we must become, all of us, the SUPERMEN.
Only a race removed from our base instincts can overcome the corruption of lack.
With a heavy heart, as I board my bus and depart from here, I realise my journey is far from over. Onward to a better world, better me, home.