JOE

I was there that Friday when you came around just to show off your new car. A G-Wagon. You were so proud of it, and honestly, who wouldn’t be? You had money, plenty of it. But Baba was not impressed. He looked at you and said, “You shouldn’t be spending so much money on cars when you’re still living in a rented apartment. You should build your own house.” You smiled and replied, “Epa, no worry. Very soon.” We all laughed. Little did we know that life was about to teach you a lesson none of us would ever forget. We always looked forward to your visits because whenever you came around, enjoyment was guaranteed. You never came empty-handed. Your car boot was always loaded with money. You never slept in the family house. You always booked a hotel because, according to you, you couldn’t deal with the bedbugs, mosquitoes, and poor power supply. You worked a corporate job, but your real passion was music. Nobody dared tell you that you couldn’t sing because, in your world, money could silence almost any criticism. I remember the day I asked you for ₦5,000 to buy a fashion design training form. You refused. I felt bad, but I wasn’t angry with you. I simply moved on. During your wedding, you spent so much money flying producers and artists to Edo State. You wanted your wedding to be unforgettable, and you spared no expense. My goodness, you were stinking rich! Then, suddenly, everything changed. The CEO of your company died. He was an elderly man married to your sister, who was his third wife. His death marked the beginning of your downfall. When his children took over the company, they began digging into its financial records. What they discovered was devastating. You and some of your colleagues had been embezzling money. Your accounts were frozen. Two of your cars were seized. Just like that, the life you had built began to crumble. I can only imagine what was going through your mind when you decided to drive your precious G-Wagon to Lagos. Perhaps you hoped to sell it and salvage whatever remained of your situation. But even that escape route was taken away from you. Your G-Wagon caught fire on the road and burnt to ashes. You barely escaped with your life. The car you had once proudly shown off was reduced to a pile of burnt metal. And then, Baba died. You were the first wealthy man I had ever watched fall so far that he was left with practically nothing. Nothing! The same man who couldn’t sleep in the family house because of bedbugs, mosquitoes, and poor electricity was now sleeping comfortably on the living room sofa. Life had humbled you in ways none of us could have imagined. Then came the day I saw you again. I could hardly believe my eyes. You gave me a lift to Ojota Park. You were now a driver there, loading passengers travelling from Lagos to Benin City. You were now the man shouting for passengers. Even the Sienna you drove wasn’t yours. It belonged to your madam, and you had to settle her every week. There you stood in a faded white singlet, shouting at the top of your voice: “LAGOS TO BENIN! LAGOS TO BENIN!!” I had some goods I needed to waybill to Ogun State, so I loaded them into another vehicle. You offered to help me pay the ₦1,000 waybill fee. I refused. I told you to keep your money. Then I waved goodbye and turned to walk away. I didn’t even realize I was crying until my salty tears touched my mouth.