I once worked on two legs, without these crutches that have now become the pillars that hold me. Twenty Junes past, I had walked on two sturdy legs.

The men came at night; they pasted the posters upon the walls of Komoma Street, pasting the big smile upon our hearts. I was brushing my teeth, when I first noticed the posters. The water I was gurgling nearly choked me, as I   tried to discern what was written on the posters. Boldly and affirmatively ‘Hope ‘93’ stood out. I spurted the water in a thin jet towards the gutter that festered in front of my room.

            To my amazement, the man’s smiley face and that slogan that dare sing of a new lease of life trailed down the length of Komoma. We all knew him. It was because of his like we all came to Lagos. Where dreams were journeys to realism. They said he was once a washer man. Pa Karimu, my landlord who knew everybody, who had not only listened to zik’s oratory but had also once dined with him, claimed he knew the man when he used to be a washer man. Washer man turn big man – turn millionaire, now to turn president. I thought of the string of transformation. This gave me hope. “Hope 93”, the poster had blared.

            I unplugged the water heater and untangled the rope from the bucket handle. I stepped into the courtyard of the tenement. A whiff of competing odours assaulted my nostrils, as I parted the curtain. The women reeked from the unwash of the night’s rituals. Mama Sikira’s child led a line of toddlers in defecating formation. The giant dustbin was already a mammoth hill of left over morsels of eba, amala, rags and banana peels. The mingled smell of the compound was that of despair. The kind of choking smells that caused asthma attacks. An excited voice – Nurse Theresa’s was at that moment arresting the attention of her listeners. I unlocked the padlock on my drum to strew the stream of my bath water. “ The man car long reach that domot “Eh!” chorused her bewildered listeners, on how one car, not a bus, was as long as the distance she pointed. The statement caused Pa Karimu to intervene in the chat “Na Kadilac dem dey call am, na dem type Zik dem de enter!” I noticed them, nodding at his revelation, of course he was there in the thick of the first republic days. Nurse Theresa aware of losing her grip on her listeners, said.

            “If you see de kind brocade the man dey wear ehn, na costly ones O, de money dem take buy am fit feed all of us for this compound for one year!

“Ewoh eh! Chei! Flowed across the compound in states of disbelief, on how one clothing could feed the whole compound for a year. “Em kay O is also part of the system. As long as it is one them we would still be in bondage, the only difference between him and the soldiers is that he is a civilian”. Teacher Ajose’s words reached me as I entered the outhouse.

            “But na good man, e dey kind!” blurted Nurse Theresa.

Of course, he is one Nigerian who envoys a tremendous support from all! We need some one who would stand by the masses like Tai!” as I shut the door of the outhouse. I muffled their words against my ears. “Em kay o” “Hope 93!” I thought once again.

            The outhouse catered for the compound ‘s tenants, it had a forever stench of shit. It had several species of buzzing flies basking in the feast of bowel harvests. The walls were an encyclopaedia of graffiti, telling the story of who and what had happen in the compound. I still wondered how some found it easy to scribble on the walls amidst the monstrous smell of the outhouse. One of the tenants who perhaps believed fervently, he had found a messiah had scribbled in charcoal “Em kay O, is our man, Hope ‘93’. I soaped my hair, and the scent of the soap alleviated the stink of the outhouse momentarily. The outhouse was the metaphor of our lives. Smelly. Backward. Em kay O was beginning to revamp my quest for life, perhaps he would pull me out of the quagmire the soldiers had thrown us into. “Hope 93” I thought. The buzz of a rude fly interrupted my reflections.

            The days of our lives passed swiftly in the euphoria of the campaign months. We had never seen anything like it. In those months of June a zephyr took me on its wings and gave me the freedom to fly and perch on the altar of love. I met Mosunmola. She was Mama Sikira’s child from an earlier marriage. With her I became a minstrel, a crooner of the songs of the heart. I walked tall, wore a wide smile, and laughed at the slightest joke. With her I anticipated the tidings the years will bring. Then came the tensions. It was palpable. Everywhere people talked. In bar rooms, after plates of goat – head and bacchanal feasts, the beer analysis of the situation always followed. The General had checkmated himself everybody agreed.

            The long line of bucket basins, and bowls, snaked down the road running into Samaja road, living only a tiny space for motorists to pass. The tap was the only one on Komoma Street. We had it as a favour from the Federal Rural Water Supply Program. As a favour because, Pa Karimu and Madam Bolewa knew people, who knew people in the Water board. I mentally counted the potpourri of water carriers before mine. “Twenty nine” I said aloud.

“The devil is a liar”

“Na lie we no gree” 

“We no go gree”

The spontaneity of these shouts shocked every one, as they slashed the morning air. Three men where staring at something in Pa Kola and Sons Barber Corner. Sweaty unwashed faces, and odorous breaths, surged forward as if they were in spasms of Molue rush. A small black and white TV set was painfully trying to be steady for it’s over anxious viewers. We caught him just in time. The General himself, I stood on the tip of my toes on an over turned bucket. On the screen I caught his beret glancing up and down.

            “We also stated in on uncertain terms of resolve to act as midwives of the new political order where we would set Nigeria truly on the road to fulfilling her manifest destiny both within the black race, and in the comity of nations. This annulment was taken in the general interest of…”

“Liar! Liar! Liar! “Khaki must go!”, Maradona! You don com again o!” “The devil is a liar!”

            The voices of the gathered listeners became a riotous cacophony turning the public water square into a chaotic bazaar. Their arms flailed in the air in convictions of emphasized points. Their spittle jetted out showering one another. The colony of greased faces, palms and overalls of the engine oil sellers across Samaja road, closed shop to joined the fray. The annulment was forced to become a cliché before nightfall.

“I said it a revolution is needed to wrench our country from the clutches of the military. This is a day light robbery. An assault on our psyche, we must resist”. These were Teacher Ajose’s words sermonising us that evening when the compound sought his opinion.