Life on K street is like sour beans left under the hot sun. It is like a blind man with pepper smeared over his eyes, it is like a child who has just lost her only doll.
K street is where I live. It is a rundown mixture of the urban and the bucolic. It is no quaint street, it is not peaceful or quiet, or neat or anything. It is just there; loud music blaring from street corners, loose girls strolling to and fro in bum shorts and wild talk dangling from their lips, boys ogling them leaning on cars they do not own, old women selling food items at higher prices, and of course, a criss-cross of wires on NEPA poles; the handwork of students who would never learn. There is also the defiant smell of Yoruba language in the air, for the stranger must either undertsand the language or leave.
K street is occupied mostly by students; the houses there are a mixture of mud and cement, the ceiling of some houses even made of empty rice bags.
It all began for me on K street. I never knew it would, but life on K strreet was very different from the life I had known. It was on K street that I learnt the meaning of everything.
I would not forget the late night treks to buy pure water or nutri-milk or the round-headed woman that sells food on the side of the street. We call her mummy.
We call every old woman mummy.
I will not forget the pharmacy with the short man we call 'Alfa'.
Again, we call every muslim 'Alfa'.
No I will not forget the game shop with the cybercafe in the back, the yellow man who runs it - whenever I see him, I am reminded of unripe paw-paw-, or the other shops you don't notice until you peek carefully.
I will not forget the woman and her son peddling recharge card, pure water and cold drinks.
Still I can't forget those who were on K street and left us to move on with life.
Then there is that black woman that sells very close to my doorstep; we call her mummy too, or sometimes Alhaja. There are other names we call her, but that is only for those who live at House 54.
There are so many stories there.
K street is where I live. It is a rundown mixture of the urban and the bucolic. It is no quaint street, it is not peaceful or quiet, or neat or anything. It is just there; loud music blaring from street corners, loose girls strolling to and fro in bum shorts and wild talk dangling from their lips, boys ogling them leaning on cars they do not own, old women selling food items at higher prices, and of course, a criss-cross of wires on NEPA poles; the handwork of students who would never learn. There is also the defiant smell of Yoruba language in the air, for the stranger must either undertsand the language or leave.
K street is occupied mostly by students; the houses there are a mixture of mud and cement, the ceiling of some houses even made of empty rice bags.
It all began for me on K street. I never knew it would, but life on K strreet was very different from the life I had known. It was on K street that I learnt the meaning of everything.
I would not forget the late night treks to buy pure water or nutri-milk or the round-headed woman that sells food on the side of the street. We call her mummy.
We call every old woman mummy.
I will not forget the pharmacy with the short man we call 'Alfa'.
Again, we call every muslim 'Alfa'.
No I will not forget the game shop with the cybercafe in the back, the yellow man who runs it - whenever I see him, I am reminded of unripe paw-paw-, or the other shops you don't notice until you peek carefully.
I will not forget the woman and her son peddling recharge card, pure water and cold drinks.
Still I can't forget those who were on K street and left us to move on with life.
Then there is that black woman that sells very close to my doorstep; we call her mummy too, or sometimes Alhaja. There are other names we call her, but that is only for those who live at House 54.
There are so many stories there.
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