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...
I DON’T WISH TO BE GOD! He spat the above words like they were a fire in his mouth, hoping to find peace afterwards. U nfortunately, the cries, complaints, demands, declarations; all in different languages, from diverse places, in many corners, from so many places of worship, by different age grades; kept tearing his eardrums. He was approaching insanity. On the 20th of September 2021, my friend was still in search of that dream job, that ideal wife, that gigantic mansion, that visa, that latest car but all seemed to hate his gut. Life had not been sunny with him but the hope was never quenched, even after losing a job opportunity all because of his state of origin as revealed by the interviewer. My guy kept the faith; attended all vigils heard of, googled all prayer points relating to breakthrough, fasted till his ribs shouted out aloud and sent out his CV to as many firms as possible. But… Mary-Amaka as she was called did not want to receive his calls anymore so she gave ...