Tag Archives: Life

Stepping on a viper 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The long-haul flight hadn’t been idle time. She’d spent those hours piecing together everything she knew so far about Agbekoya—details stitched from the stories Mulika had shared during their many phone calls. Realistic about the challenge ahead, she never pretended the writing would be easy. That’s why she’d packed her Palm Pilot, trusting its sleek technology to be a reliable companion. Alongside it, she carried a well-worn scrapbook, ready to catch stray thoughts and sudden insights.

Now, with a flick of her wrist, she snapped open the Palm Pilot’s cover. It was time to revisit her notes. As the screen lit up and she scrolled through the entries, she began to read aloud the opening lines of her first chapter

On a crisp January morning, Mulika Ajagbe stood resolutely in the wooden dock of the Customary Court in Akanran. The air was thick with anticipation as the Customary Court Judge prepared to hear her divorce petition.

Mulika’s journey to this moment began over four years ago when she was an exuberant 15-year-old, full of life and dreams. School was her sanctuary, and the three kilometres’ trek through the dense rainforest, past Cocoa, Kolanut and Palm tree farms, was an adventure she relished. The rainy season brought its own delights; she would often pause to collect snails and mushrooms, treasures hidden beneath the logs and fallen leaves, illuminated by the early morning sun filtering through the towering trees.

The stream she crossed daily, usually a gentle flow, transformed into a roaring torrent after the rains, a challenge she faced with unwavering determination. At Community Grammar School, Akanran, Mulika’s passion for learning made her a top student, and one admired by her peers who sought her help with their homework. She had read Mabel Segun’s “My Father’s Daughter” and had said that one day, she would write a similar book about her father, Ajagbe.

After school, Mulika would assist her mother at their modest market stall, selling beans, rice, garri, and other food items. Evenings in her village were filled with the joyous game of “ten-ten”, where she and her friends, with rhythmic hand-clapping and leg movements, combined physical coordination with songs to foster coordination, concentration, and memory skills, all while providing a lively and engaging form of play. This playful escape was far more appealing to her than listening to the familiar tales by moonlight of “Iya Agba,” many of which she now knew by heart after listening to them through most of her years growing up.

Complementing her brilliant mind is Mulika’s ravishing beauty – dark, elegant, tall, and perfectly curvaceous. This charm, however, was to become her downfall. Her striking appearance did not go unnoticed by the local men, particularly Ajireni, a prosperous cocoa farmer. The previous season had been exceptionally fruitful for Ajireni, with his farm yielding a bountiful harvest and market prices soaring to unprecedented heights. Flush with this newfound wealth, Ajireni set his sights on marrying Mulika.

Despite his persistent advances, Mulika firmly rejected Ajireni. Undeterred, he turned to her father, Ajagbe, who was struggling through challenging times. After discussing the matter with his wife, Simbiatu, Ajagbe concluded that Mulika marrying Ajireni might be beneficial, especially since she was of marriageable age. After all, Risikatu, her cousin, though younger was already married and a mother of two.

So, they agreed with Ajireni, who promptly paid her dowry and fulfilled all customary obligations. Ajireni envisioned a grand traditional wedding, but Mulika refused, forcing him to abandon the idea. Over the following months, Ajireni hoped Mulika would change her mind and recognise the benefits of marrying him. He even offered to set up a provision store for her in Akanran, like those he had established for his two other wives. Education, the type that Mulika was pursuing, was not in any plans of Ajireni for her. To him, she would be better off as the mother of his children, bringing them up and operating a trade beside.

However, Mulika remained steadfast in her refusal, repeatedly urging her parents to return Ajireni’s dowry, emphasising that he was old enough to be her father. After months of waiting in vain for his new wife, Ajireni informed Ajagbe of his desire to claim Mulika, and together, they devised a plan.

On a moonless night, with the village covered in thick darkness, heavy knocks on the wooden door reverberated through the mud-walled house of Ajagbe. The loud noise jolted Mulika and everyone else awake. Her father, though expecting the visitors, feigned ignorance and sluggishly moved from his room to the thick doors, asking, “Eyin wo niyen, se ariwo yi ko wa poju ni bayi?[1]”

Had Mulika been more observant, she might have noticed her mother’s red, swollen eyes earlier that evening, a telltale sign of tears. But even if she had asked Simbiatu, her mother, it was doubtful she would have received an answer that could prepare her for the night’s events.

As Ajagbe opened the door, he was confronted by four hulking figures silhouetted against the darkness. They wasted no time, their mission clear. Without a word, they stormed into Mulika’s room, where she lay half-dressed in her night wrapper, lifting her onto their shoulders and disappeared into the night, ignoring her wails and cries of “E gbe mi sile, Ki ni mo se?[2]”

The men navigated the bush paths, arriving at Ajireni’s home, where they delivered Mulika to his room, locked the door, and stood vigil outside. Experience had taught them that sometimes a woman could overpower her husband and escape, so they remained on guard throughout the night.

After sobbing, kicking, fighting, and making all the noise she could, Mulika eventually grew tired and resigned herself to her fate. It was then that Ajireni took advantage of her and consummated the marriage. Over the following weeks and months, Ajireni repeatedly asserted his claim, referring to Mulika as his new wife. Soon, Mulika became pregnant and gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The village celebrated, but Mulika’s joy had vanished the day she was forcibly taken from her father’s house. Not even the birth of her son or the festive celebrations could restore it.

Once her son was weaned, Mulika seized an opportunity to escape, pretending she needed to fetch some items. She fled to Ijebu-Igbo, disappearing for six months. A search party scoured the area, but she remained elusive until a chance encounter at the market one evening led to her discovery. Following pleas and entreaties, Mulika returned to the village but refused to go back to Ajireni’s house.

Now, standing in the courtroom, Mulika’s vibrant past contrasted sharply with the gravity of her present. Her story, one hitherto filled with youthful exuberance and simple pleasures, had led her to the Akanran Customary Court. The night of her abduction had set in motion a series of events that eventually brought her here, seeking a divorce from Ajireni.

Chief Samuel Ejitayo Bakare, who was also the Baale of Olorunda, a village in the area, presided over the case, dissolving the marriage and ordering Mulika’s parents to compensate Ajireni. This judgment became the Baale’s undoing. Ajireni, feeling the dissolution was unjust, harboured a deep resentment towards the Baale.

Unknowingly, the Baale had stepped on a viper. All this was three years ago, but the seed of discord never stops germinating as it gets watered each passing day with events that, otherwise, would have been no issues.

Moria felt a sense of fulfilment with what she had written so far. Her words faithfully captured the tale Mulika had shared with her. Yet, she knew there was more to come, more when she arrived in Ibadan. Mulika would be waiting for her.

[1] Who is there? Is this noise not too loud?

[2] Let me down, what have I done?

Echoes from Ajijola Adebiyi: What Truly Matters in Our Shared Human Tapestry

You might search for Ajijola Adebiyi Street on Google Maps and find no trace. Not because it doesn’t exist, but because, in the grand scheme of digitally mapped landscapes, it’s deemed insignificant. The Google Street mapping vehicles, with their cameras poised to capture every accessible road, simply have no way to navigate its challenging terrain. Yet, for hundreds, if not thousands, of our fellow humans, this unyielding path in Akute forms the very arteries of their daily commute, day and night. It offers a glance to the myriad unseen worlds that hum beneath the radar of our modern conveniences.

Ajijola Adebiyi stands at a precipice, descending steeply into the ravine carved by the Ogun River. It’s a “street” truly devoid of vehicular clamour, of the ubiquitous Okada traffic that defines much of the Lagos/Ogun axis. Indeed, it couldn’t host them. Jagged rock outcrops and treacherous inclines serve as formidable barriers, rendering even a wheelbarrow or bicycle useless. Here, humanity relies solely on the two legs nature bestowed upon us.

My temporary abode for a night stood resolutely at the bottom of this perilous descent, a simple, rectangular two-bedroom home. Arriving the previous evening, I had parked uphill, then followed my host, navigating the treacherous slope. Any misstep, any lapse in concentration, would surely invite tragedy – bruised skin, fractured bones, a rolling piece of flesh gaining momentum towards the ravine, hopefully saved from a calamitous ending by a house or a lone thicket of bush.

Morning broke, painting the landscape in hues of gold and possibility. As I stood before the house, a mixed scent of vibrant vegetation, wafting from the expansive bushland behind me within the Ogun River’s path, and human waste from the piles of dirt scattered in the valley below, to my left where a wooden bridge has been constructed, permeated the air. My gaze swept across the delicately perched buildings on nearby hills, and the humble, patched creations surrounding me – homes cobbled together out of sheer necessity, providing shelter for diverse families. And then, there was the procession: a flowing tapestry of humanity, traversing this arduous street in pursuit of whatever it is humans seek daily.

Overnight, from my perch on a well-worn sofa, I had been an unwitting eavesdropper to the unfiltered symphony of human existence. Conversations drifted in, raw and resonant, from passersby, their voices clear through the unpaned openings, guarded only by iron burglaries and simple blinds. As the human traffic waned, a new rhythm emerged: the intermittent, rhythmic thud of goats kicking their food buckets in the neighbouring compound. This unexpected serenade continued until the early dawn, when, as if by a pre-arranged handover, it yielded to the rising crescendo of human commuters.

Stepping inside the house was like stepping back in time, into a memory long forgotten, yet intimately familiar. I had been here before, figuratively. To the right of the metal entrance door, crafted from carefully welded iron bars, stood a lone, black Singer sewing machine. Its sturdy black balustrade iron legs and foot pedal spoke of decades of tireless service, the original black paint peeling, the “S” of its golden name almost lost to time.

Three worn sofa chairs, arranged in a U-shape facing the well-used curtain on the entrance door, served as the primary living space. The central chair became my bed. On the sofa to my left lay unarranged books, their untouched state suggesting a long respite from curious eyes. Beside them, the sole relic of yesteryear’s luxury – an out-of-use 21-inch television, its dark plastic back silently observing the room. The sofa on the right, against the wall, backed a window, outside which a pedestrian path snaked down to the ravine, leading to a makeshift plank crossing over the seasonal Ogun River, linking to other sprawling communities beyond.

Looking up, the composite ceiling showed signs of wear, giving way in places. The absence of internal doors, replaced by long-drawn curtains for privacy, echoed the homes of my own early years. Only the windows facing the rain-bearing winds boasted glass panes; the others, stark iron burglaries, offered unhindered connection to the outside.

Yet, this was not a tableau of idleness. The family residing here exemplified resilience. The father, a determined silhouette against the pre-dawn sky, left home as early as 5 AM for his daily grind. The mother, steadfast in her tailoring trade, poured her dedication into every stitch. Their children, with their impeccable English, bore the indelible mark of the University – a can-do ambition, an all-or-nothing spirit that drove one daughter to resign her appointment in pursuance of her passion for fashion. Amidst their daily struggles, one constant shone brightly: an unwavering, growing love for Christ and for each other.

As the morning rays strengthened, I stepped out, drawn by the increasing torrent of human traffic. On Ajijola Adebiyi, creed and tribe dissolved. I heard conversations in Hausa, then an old woman carrying a heavy sack on her head soliloquising in Igbo. A school student, his blue trousers at odds with his rubber slippers, having outgrown the trouser, walked by, his backpack zipper-less. Soon, another followed suit. A Youth Corper, immaculate in her starched khaki green uniform and white sneakers, stood out. Her choice of white footwear, on the red dust of these trodden paths, subtly revealed her newness to the area – a lesson long-time residents learn about the unwelcoming nature of white shoes here. The ascending and descending figures were differentiated only by age, each carrying their burdens, their hopes, their humanity etched on their faces. I saw a mother, a baby strapped to her back, with two bags weighing her down, carried on each hand. Yet, a common thread bound them all: a profound kindness. Many, young and old, stooped or knelt, offering sincere “good mornings” as they passed. Their shared ambitions, too, were palpable. From inside the humble sitting room, I overheard a future international soccer player explaining VAR to his friend and a budding beauty queen discussing an upcoming pageant. Even a beggar found his place here, spreading his nylon mat, jug of water, and walking stick, teaching us that even in scarcity, there are always those one is “better than.”

Reflecting on Ajijola Adebiyi Street, I realised it is not unique. There are countless such pathways woven into the fabric of our existence. Yet, our “posh lives” in gated estates and exclusive enclaves like Lekki and Banana Island often blind us to these realities. Ajijola Adebiyi is a powerful reminder that the fundamental necessities for existence are few and not costly. It is our boundless wants, our insatiable desires for excess and flamboyance, that become our Achilles’ heel, distancing us from the very essence of our shared humanity. This street calls us to embrace a life where true value lies not in accumulation but in connection, community, and the quiet dignity of simply being.

A Day in the Life of a PhD Researcher: The Relentless Pursuit of Knowledge

The life of a PhD researcher is sometimes romanticized – a world of quiet contemplation, groundbreaking discoveries, and academic accolades. While those moments certainly exist, the reality is often a whirlwind of intense focus, frustrating dead ends, and the constant battle against the relentless march of time. Today, I’m pulling back the curtain to share a glimpse into a typical day in my life, as I grapple with the fascinating, and sometimes maddening, world of autonomous vehicle forensics.

It all started with a seemingly simple suggestion from my supervisors. I’m working on developing an ontology – essentially a structured framework – to aid in digital forensic investigations of self-driving cars. For weeks, I’d been painstakingly piecing together the intricate relationships between the car’s sensors, control systems, and data logs. Think of it as creating a detailed map of how a car’s “brain” works, so we can understand what happened in the event of an incident.

Then came the feedback: “Have you considered using Large Language Models (LLMs) to automate some of this?”

It sounded brilliant! Imagine, I thought, simply prompting an AI to generate the classes, objects, and relationships needed for my ontology. It would save me weeks of manual labor! But, as any seasoned researcher knows, nothing is ever that simple. My supervisors’ advice, while promising, came with a crucial caveat: “You can’t just use an LLM. You need to justify its use. Understand the existing research, the strengths, weaknesses, and how it applies specifically to your field.”

And that, my friends, is where the rabbit hole began.

5:30 AM: The Eureka…and the Coffee

The enormity of the task hit me like a jolt of electricity. I woke up at 5:30 AM, my mind buzzing with questions. Forget gentle sunrise and birdsong; my morning began with a frantic dash to the kitchen, fueled by the urgent need for copious amounts of coffee.

My kitchen counter transformed into a makeshift command center. Laptop, dual-screen attachment (a recent birthday gift that has become my most prized possession), and a bottomless flask of coffee. On one screen, I had a Word document, bravely titled “Harnessing Prompt Engineering in LLMs for Automated Generation of Class-Object Relationships for Digital Forensics of Autonomous Vehicles.” Ambitious, I know.

On another screen, Google Scholar became my best friend and worst enemy. I was on a quest for peer-reviewed research on “prompt engineering,” the art and science of crafting effective instructions for LLMs. My supervisors, bless their demanding hearts, insist on sources no older than four years. This meant sifting through countless papers, each averaging 20+ pages, trying to discern the nuggets of gold from the mountains of academic jargon.

The third screen? That was for GitHub, where I desperately searched for any existing prompt templates that might offer a shortcut.

The Perils of Paper Trails

The next few hours were a blur of reading, writing, and rewriting. I’d devour a research paper, feeling a surge of understanding, only to stumble upon a counter-argument in the next, forcing me to revise my entire approach. It’s a humbling experience, realizing how much you don’t know, even about something you’re supposed to be an “expert” in.

I’d test my understanding by experimenting with different LLMs, the results varying wildly. I’d refine my prompts, try again, and slowly, ever so slowly, the pieces started to come together. It’s a relentless cycle: read, write, test, edit, repeat.

The World Outside (Barely)

Lost in my research, I became oblivious to the world around me. My wife, bless her patience, gave me a peck on the cheek and said good morning, but I was too deep in the prompt engineering abyss to register much beyond a vague sense of affection. She made breakfast, but the hunger for knowledge trumped the hunger for food.

Later, my mother popped in, commenting on my apparent immobility. “You’ve been stuck in that same spot since my trip to the loo!” she exclaimed. I tried to explain the complexities of ontology generation and LLM prompt engineering, but her eyes glazed over. She just wanted a bit of my time, but quickly realized I was in “do not disturb” mode and left me to my academic solitude.

The day wore on, marked only by the gradual depletion of my coffee flask and the growing ache in my shoulders. My wife returned from the gym, made lunch, and, understandably, gave me a wide berth, the untouched breakfast serving as a silent testament to my single-minded focus.

5:00 PM: Reality Check

It was 5:00 PM before I finally surfaced, blinking in the fading light. I looked down at myself: still in my night robe, coffee flask empty, hair disheveled from constant tugging, and a gnawing hunger in my stomach. I realized I’d been living on caffeine and academic adrenaline.

Enough was enough. I needed a break.

Tennis Therapy and Tunes

I traded my research uniform for tennis gear and dashed to the courts, arriving just as the matches were about to begin. Two hours of chasing yellow balls, channeling my inner Novak Djokovic (while my aging body screamed for mercy), and chatting with fellow tennis enthusiasts provided a much-needed mental cleanse.

As I drove home, the city lights twinkling, I put on I.K. Dairo’s “Ise Ori Ranmi Ni Mo Nse,” a timeless Nigerian tune that always lifts my spirits. The cool evening air, the music, the sights and sounds of Perth winding down – it was a welcome escape from the world of ontologies and LLMs.

Back to Reality (and Dinner)

Stepping back into the house, hunger pangs hit me with full force. I made a beeline for the kitchen, where the now-cold breakfast awaited its microwave resurrection. As I reached for it, my eyes landed on my laptop setup, a stark reminder of the unfinished work. For now, the hunger for food won the battle against the hunger for knowledge.

Dinner (formerly breakfast) warmed and ready, I switched on the TV, tuning into Al Jazeera. I needed a break from the research, but also wanted to stay informed. Western news outlets, in my opinion, often present a skewed view of the ongoing conflict in Gaza, so I sought a different perspective. Then, I flipped over to Channels TV to catch up on Nigerian politics, only to be further disheartened by the responses of a prominent political figure. It was a stark reminder that the world outside academia is just as complex and challenging as the world within it.

Finally, exhaustion won. A hot shower and the promise of sleep beckoned.

The PhD Journey: A Winding Road

As I reflect on my day, and on the broader PhD experience, I’m reminded of something I said earlier: “Knowledge extraction…it doesn’t come in a straight line. You learn a little, then you look for more research to support, or refute, what you’ve learned, and then learn more.”

It’s a messy, iterative process, full of detours, dead ends, and moments of profound frustration. But it’s also a journey of intellectual growth, of pushing the boundaries of human knowledge, and of contributing, in my own small way, to a deeper understanding of the world. And for that, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Well, maybe for a few more hours of sleep. And a self-refilling coffee flask, just in case you are thinking of giving me a gift.

Update – 12th May 2025 – “You are the best!”

After many demanding hours spent researching effective prompts for LLMs to help establish object-class relationships as a foundational ontology, I presented my findings to my supervisors during our weekly meeting.

I was absolutely thrilled by their feedback, which was not only positive but truly commendatory. It’s rare to hear that among the numerous Higher Degree by Research students in the Faculty, one’s work stands out as the best. I was deeply moved, realizing that the countless late nights and the exhaustion had yielded significant results

However, as is often the case, good work leads to more work! My supervisors encouraged me to delve deeper and further refine the prompts. The research paper is still in progress, but here is a draft as it currently stands.

The Ikorodu Mafia

At the Junction where Sorinmade Street meets the Eyita-Ojokoro Road was my designated pick-up point for the daily commute to Lekki on the Staff Bus. Joining me here, on most days, was Sanjo Bankole.

Prior to the bus getting to us, people like Mrs. Mariam Lawal and Mr. Jide Odujole would have been picked up.

We knew that spot as Tile-Tile Olomi, a nickname born from the nearby house of Tile-Tile himself, the local water vendor. His overflowing storage tanks, a boon to parched throats, were a bane to the already fragile, graded road, slowly washing it away with each spill.

It was also at this junction that my Vento-driving Oga, Mr. C.A. Odumuyiwa lived. I couldn’t be following him to Lekki because of his commitments to his family, so I had to be at this point by about 6am.

After we have been picked, the bus makes its way down the Sorinmade Street to pick up Mr. Abiodun Ogunsola, popularly called Uncle B and the man that now only laugh in Swahili, Gbenga Akinmoladun. Also, joining around here were Festus Oyewole and Clement Ademuwagun. Picking up folks like Ujene and a few others, we will burst out at Benson Bus Stop to the Lagos-Ikorodu Road.

Depending on the traffic advisory the ‘Pilot’ had received from the dispatcher and other pilots on his 2 way radio, he takes the bus on the Lagos Road or faces the Ijebu-Ode road, a longer route that will take us through Majidun, Epe and the, then, traffic free Lekki-Epe Road to the office.

The moment the bus tires touched the paved road, leaving behind the dusty labyrinth of Ikorodu’s back roads, it was lights out. Everyone, save the driver, naturally, would succumb to the sweet embrace of sleep, trying to recoup the hours lost to a 5 a.m. wake-up call. Chief Odukalu was the exception, a stalwart companion to the driver, keeping him company on those early morning journeys.

We had our favourite breakfast spots in those days. Coming to the office via the Third Mainland Bridge meant a stopover at the Ghana Embassy for Ghana Rice. While I do not want to start another debate about which is better—Nigerian Jollof or Ghana Jollof—I want to state unequivocally that if you had not tasted the Ghana Rice sold at the Embassy in those days, you missed a major culinary experience. Men and women (even those “pepperless ones,” you know them), from all walks of life, were all there getting their tummies nourished in preparation for the day’s business.

Those dimly lit dining rooms, with their whirring fans and long wooden benches drawn up to matching tables, were a hub of pre-social media networking. Before Facebook and LinkedIn, this was where connections were forged. It was there, amidst the clatter and the chatter, that I ran into a former classmate of mine, a man who, in the eight years since we’d last seen each other, had become a veritable mogul in the Nigerian capital market.

When our commute took us along the Lekki-Epe Expressway, our breakfast haven was in Ajah. And on those days, Lafun was the undisputed champion. Yes, Lafun with Abula, first thing in the morning. You simply cannot fathom the life it breathed into a team of savvy professionals, ready to tackle another day of work for Chevron. I am convinced Chevron owed that Lafun woman a medal of honour, maybe even a share of the annual profits, for her unparalleled service to their employees.

In route 5A, not very sure I remember it correctly, we were from different tribes and tongues but saw Ikorodu as home. Our Pilot was Odiase, and he taught me invaluable lessons in asset preservation just from observing how he managed both the bus and his personal car, he was that meticulous.

In those days we also had one AlphaPaPa (APP, and don’t start asking me to explain this) commuting with us. His name? Jeun-Jeun, at least that was what he was popularly called. Till date I don’t know what his real name is.

“Jeun-Jeun” was indeed an apt nickname. Witnessing him demolish the mountains of food the “Whassan” caterers prepared left no room for doubt. His physique seemed to be a response to the popular Yoruba proverb, “Eni to ba yokun ni ke gbe owo fun,” He hadn’t heeded the warnings about a day of reckoning. And then, that day arrived.

Chevron had a policy that all in the bus must wear seat belts. So he did, as we all did. But Jeun-Jeun was a man of considerable size, a size that the Toyota guys at Chubu, Japan did not consider when they designed the seat belts.As the bus reached the foyer, that fateful morning, everyone unbuckled, except Jeun-Jeun. His seatbelt buckle had been “swallowed” by his ample stomach, rendering it inaccessible. Panic ensued. The fight-or-flight response kicked in, and Jeun-Jeun began to hyperventilate, almost to the point of tears, frantically calling for help. It took the concerted effort from some empathisers to disentangle the buckle from its unexpected imprisonment.

Whassan was not too bad as a caterer. However, the initial allure of “free food,” particularly captivating for newcomers to the Lekki campus, quickly fades. The aroma emanating from the cafeteria begins to induce a sense of nausea. Thank God for Iya Kogi, being the nearby alternative.

Given the location of her buka, and the clientele it attracted – men and women of influence and means – some speculated that her culinary prowess extended beyond just the ordinary ingredients (I know you know what I mean, yes, exactly what you are thinking)

Why would people abandon ‘free food’ and then subject themselves to the long lines for lunch, with some picking up and washing the plates with which they would be served food? This was enough to fuel the whispers. I don’t disagree with them but since he who alleges must prove, I have been waiting for the proof.

When Chevron embarked on the Twin Lakes project, I secretly hoped for a revelation: the discovery of a grave at where her buka used to be, perhaps of a human being, cow or goat, a testament to the rumoured practices that had undoubtedly contributed to her success, albeit no such thing had been found till date and therefore one can only conclude that fresh fish or goat soup cooked with Iru (locust beans) trumps anything made with Maggi or Knorr.

Among the restaurant’s most loyal patrons were Mr.Ajide, Alhaji Owodunni, Caleb Adeyemo, Jummy Olagunju, the aptly nicknamed “Small Body, Big Engine,” Bode Kolawole, Mrs Adewale and many others. Everybody visited. Even Mrs. Nnaobi, despite her Ajebota looks as her eyeglasses present, and her gang of three did visit. In a way, Iya Kogi’s buka was our own version of “The Rich Also Cry,” the famous restaurant in Port Harcourt. Her food had a fiery kick that would leave you sweating profusely, yet you’ll yearn to come back the next day.To be honest, not everyone frequented Iya Kogi’s for the food alone. Let’s just say her curvaceous, beautiful daughter’s charm had a certain
 appeal. I know names, but discretion is advised for now, except I get offended by some.

At the end of the workday, we’d all converge from our various assignments to catch the bus. But there was one surefire sign that it was time to go: the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Fawehinmi’s high heels. She was devoted to her work during office hours, but come 4:30 PM, she was out the door. No manager dared to keep her past closing time; not even the fear of the dreaded PMP could deter her.

Our bus was usually among the first few to leave, signalling the start of the long journey home. If we took the route through town, we braced ourselves for the inevitable traffic jams at Dolphin, Third Mainland, and Ketu-Alapere. But, we count it all joy if we follow the Epe route and it was the harvest season. There were women, not our wives, that counted it all joy as well to see us. After passing through Majidun, we would often make a brief stop to purchase fresh, boiled corn, perhaps with pear or whatever other seasonal treats were available. Some had bought fresh palm wine from the roadside as well. These snacks would sustain us until we reached Itamaga, where the first passenger would typically disembark.

Regardless of the route, the bus rides were always filled with lively discussions, sometimes even heated debates. We’d tackle a wide range of topics, engaging in lively exchanges that transcended any notion of ethnicity or hierarchical relationships within the company.