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...
OUR SOAP IS IN US “We should be participating in all sports at the Olympics. We have different states known for their gifts. Some can swim and paddle, many can race, some are from hilly states and can be trained, some can wrestle as it is part of their festivals, others can...” “Abeg na who go cut soap for me I dey find. All these can…can…can… you are saying is a far cry. Even if we are given 10 years to prepare for the games it will not be enough. How many swimming pools do you have in your state, talk less of all local government areas? Did you hear the name of the swimming grounds at the Olympics? It is called Tokyo Aquatics Centre; aquatic animals fit camp there no shaking! The pools I have seen in this side of the earth na inside people compound dem dey to use differentiate poor man from rich man.” “Pessimism has eaten deep into your membrane. Imagine if we harness our sport sector and top it up with tourism, we will not need any oil to survive man! See, all t...