It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
WICKEDNESS IN HIGH PLACES Look at this child hustling to survive. Mehn this country is too hard. Jesus! He will fall o..! the crate of water is too heavy on his head…! This was the beginning of a show of wickedness. We see a white bus filled with men and women looking like crusade members with some wearing face masks. One of the passengers calls out to a child hawker selling water for a bottle that costs N100. The child looks not older than 11 years. He struggles to catch up with the white bus as the traffic moves from time to time, with a crate filled with cool bottles of water on his head. His Ankara - up and down - is wet with sweat from the marathon of the day. It is past six in the evening. The bus moves in the traffic, enough for the child to hand over the bottle of water to the passenger in demand and just when it is time to exchange notes of change by the child and payment by the buyer, the bus driver increases the speed of the vehicle. The traffic had subsided. We ...