… where sa-tyres never go flat
… where sa-tyres never go flat
The worker ants are those government workers commuting between anthills of metal and glass, wearing threadbare suits and those fancy puppy leashes they call ties. They weightlift crumbs of the national cake bigger than their own financial size to pay homage to the colonial masters before ultimately falling apart, appendage by appendage, to be sustained only by the trickle of nutrients we call pension.
As the driver approached it, the pothole cried out with a loud voice, “Who are you, driver?” Our driver responded as fast as the economic growth rate of Nigeria with, “I am Muhammed from Bornu state.” To my amazement, the pothole closed up leaving us with a smooth road to drive through. I asked the driver what just happened, he said, “Walahi, it’s because I’m from Bornu. What affects other Nigerians doesn’t affect us. Some basic problems other people encounter don’t come near us.”
