Read Time:3 Minute, 27 Second
CEMETERY
a market somewhere in Aba, Abia state, Nigeria. Here, the smell of sweat rivals oxygen for dominance in the air. It’s a fierce battle, and one could tell—even before touching the entrance—that the former is reaching ascendency. One foot through this gate and you could already perceive a saturation of perspiration in the ambiance, like the sweet scent of incense burning on a Catholic altar flying all over the space-- finding its way into all the nostrils present at worship. Or perhaps it's no sweet scent, supposing you're an alien to the odour of the man who, for a living, baths in metal-melting sun rays whilst shouldering and transporting loads the weight of a house. Here, boys are men, and girls are no ladies— no—they’re no less the man who shoulders a house for a living—frankly. And it’s no child abuse, it’s the hustle. Here, the rain doesn’t shatter the anthills— no—the bustling is just as steady as when the sun is at its peak. They say the average man works eight hours a day. I do not disagree, but an hour here is like a bestseller on the back of an ant. Not that it’s too slow, but that it’s very, very heavy. The people call here cemetery / now I know why; oxygen don’t live here. And if it does, nobody breathes it.