Story, story…
Once upon a time, some men left their homeland in search of a better place because hunger was almost wiping them off the earth.
They embarked on a journey to look for a new place where they could get food and people to buy their goods. Many of them died after weeks and months at sea, the others continued travelling determined not to go back to the hunger.
They were almost giving up hope when their ship finally berthed in a place they later named Lagos (never mind what the owners of the place called it before).
The place is still called Lagos up till now and it has grown into one of the biggest cities in the region. However, when these men, I forgot to say they were white, when they arrived, they found the place fertile for business; with a bustling port made for business. What else did they need?
God had heard their prayers. So they went about building and building. Offices, houses, clubs, roads, bridges, swimming pools, they wanted the place to look like their homeland.
After a while the indigenes of the place got involved in business and joined these white men in building. They cut down trees, filled rivers with sand and built on it, poured cement over floors, built more bridges and canals. When other people visited they said ‘wow, what a beautiful city.’ The people glowed with pride at their concrete jungle.
Decades later, after the harmattan had had a field day, it handed the baton over to the sun. The sun, a very jealous being did not want to share its season with anyone else, not even the refreshing winds. When it finally decided to show up, first it peeked and what it saw gave it joy. It said ‘Yes!!! No trees no block my view from the people, no bloody forests to give them cool air, not one, my turn to reign.’ It came out beating its chest and blazed down on the people, and all the air in the land was still. The people moaned and groaned, they begged the sun but it would not relent, some went berserk under the heat, the children cried. The sun heated up their water too so they couldn’t find rest from it.
At night they couldn’t sleep, their beds were soaked with their sweat. The ones who dared to open their windows for a feel of the night air were attacked by tiny flying cannibals who feasted on them.
And that is the end of my story.
Eko O ni ba Je o
