I have learnt many things in life and one of them is that you cannot run for your life in high heel shoes.
As I was running down the slope of Falomo Bridge, at some time past 4 am, I was actually praying for the heels of my Dorothy Perkins shoes to break because I did not dare to stop to take them off. I was no longer aware of Mama running behind me. I couldn’t hear her footsteps but I wasn’t stopping to check on her; it was well and truly an every-chick-for-herself kind of situation. And besides, we have always told her to lose weight. Maybe now, if we make it out of this alive, she would finally learn the folly of embracing her orobo title.
At the bottom of the bridge, on the Ikoyi side, I ran into the remnants of a police check point. The officers were drinking what I can only assume to be paraga, and counting the days take. If I was shocked to happen on them at four in the morning, they were equally startled to see a yellow girl in a cream low-cut chiffon dress running at them. They scattered away from my path and would have let me continue if at that point Mama had not called out to me and finally break my get-away.
The policemen regained their composure and immediately proceeded to arrest us, pointing their guns and shouting at us to tell them who we were.
I was out of breath, Mama even more so. The officers waited while their paraga woman opined that we must be ashewos and they agreed, without relenting their hold on their weapons.
As I was contemplating whether it was wise to tell them from what we had fled, Mama, ever the loud mouth, filled them in with every ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ of her thick Yoruba accent.
‘Ritual killer!’ she shouted.’He is there on the bridge. He stopped to piss, that is how we escaped. He didn’t know I speak Yoruba. He was telling his friend on the phone that he has found two girls for the ritual!’ Continue reading “Chronicles of a Runs Girl Part 1: Running girl”