Some say love makes the world go round. I disagree. It's trotros. Overcrowded, screaming, gear-grinding trotros.
I was on my way to a "business seminar" I saw on Facebook (spoiler: it was a wedding rehearsal), when I made the mistake of boarding the last empty seat in the back row. That seat is cursed. Everyone knows it. Except me.
Five minutes in, the mate demanded change I didn't have, so I offered him half a boiled egg and vibes.
He was not amused.
Then, a tomato seller with six buckets and zero chill wedged herself beside me. Her tomatoes were firm. Her elbows were firmer. Each bump in the road sent a red avalanche onto my white shirt.
"You dey press my tomato o!" she shouted.
I was about to apologize when the driver suddenly swerved and hit a pothole so deep I saw childhood flash before my eyes.
I ended up with a tomato in my ear, a phone in my lap that wasn't mine, and a whispered threat from the seller:
"May your jollof never have meat again."
I think I've been cursed.