I sit here by my laptop, thinking about what to write. The black-and-white keys stare at me, waiting for me to start punching. It’s been a while, this writing thing. It’s been a while I wrote anything that wasn’t preceded by a brief. People talk about writer’s block. I guess they haven’t met Nigerian clients. The brief comes in same day and you are expected to publish by mid-day. You cannot absolutely afford a block. How dare you when the client is paying? But here I am, on my own time having a block. A 7-foot high concrete block.

My mind is travelling, down a few days ago. I was at one of the shops in Sagamu when I realised it was almost time to go home and there might be nothing to eat for dinner. Eid was a few or 36 hours away, depending on moon sightings. I walked round the market, soaking in the sights, the sounds, trying to decide what to buy.

There were green-and-white coloured cabs. The drivers and motor park boys were calling passengers to neighbouring small towns and farm settlements. It’s amazing how this town located just outside of Lagos could perfectly blend 21^st century civilization with a stillness that feels like something out of the 80s. This is another why I always come back here.

My stomach rumbled. The hunger was starting to bite. I ignored. It was not critical. The critical was the kind that got you buying all sorts of ijekuje just so you don’t collapse in the middle of a road. I stopped by a Hausa trader to buy beans. For someone who isn’t particularly fond of beans, just standing in front of the trader and haggling was weird.

Truth be told, I wasn’t particularly interested in buying beans. I was more interested in his feet. Scaly, dry and wide-spread, there was something about those feet. They bore scars that spoke of untold wars – places the mouth couldn’t speak about. Those feet reminded me of the deadly, sharp-fanged crocodiles on Nat Geo Wild. Scaly, dry and wide-spread. I wondered where those feet had been, what stories they bore even as I offered the most ridiculous pricing for two Congo of beans.

“Your feet, they bear stories of hard places”, I almost blurted. By this time, he had agreed to my price. One part of me was asking if I was really going to buy. The other was reminding me to hurry up, the sun was almost down. It was time to make up my mind. I watched wrinkles on skin as the trader measured heaps of beans into black leather. A second heap followed. And then some more. “Jara”, he said. Still I watched, amazed at crocodile feet on human skin. I murmured something, Nagode, I think, in my almost perfect Hausa accent. I walked away, in search of something I’d really eat.

I jolt back to reality. Aha! Words. There are words on my screen. Actual words. I am really writing again.

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