Sweaty Votes

Every Nigerian counts

I’m leaning against the window, in the back seat. Despite the air condition, the cruelty of Lagos sun is evident, my head pressed to the window, I feel warmth, mild, the harsh sun watered down. Watered down Nigeria. The Nigeria my children will know.

I despise being in Lagos, there’s no possible way to separate yourself from its desperation. The boy hawking biscuits, the woman in the silver earrings haggling over the inflated toy zebra. The unending traffic, the noisy vehicle beside me, the molue has a conductor sticking out through the open door. He wipes his face with his yellowing singlet, he’s shouting, I can’t hear him but I see the veins in his neck as his chest rise and falls. There’s a woman inside dressed corporately, probably heading to work on the island. A sweaty woman with a baby tied to her back, the driver is tearing through a loaf of bread. One sweaty face after another, different stories.

I wonder who they will vote for.

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