Strolling with an eager anticipation of the culinary delights sublimely created to soothe my aching throat and growling stomach, I hum a mindless tune that bears no connection whatsoever to any extant song. Somehow the steady ‘chomp chomp’ of my footsteps are the entire accompaniment I can muster to the tune that fills my head to overflowing. It has been a hard day of work; if shuffling papers, shouting at the interns, playing solitaire and facebooking count as work that is. All that is far removed from the fore of my mind though, as the gently fading sun casts long shadows on the earth behind me, whilst I walk along the street, anachronistically named the Nineteenth
The object of my desire is piping hot amala served with ewedu and pomo, churned out with surprising consistency and impressive dexterity by Iya Monday; a shockingly obese woman, clearly stuck in menopause who pointedly insists on bedecking herself with a nose ring, four inch heels and a spaghetti top which manages to conceal what should be exposed and expose what perhaps in a different time and age might have provoked a pointedly visceral response in a man of lesser virtues.
The shrill ‘peeen peeen’ of a ‘vespa’ awakens me from my reverie, as I suddenly realize that I had indeed come within whiskers of being brushed off the road into the seething morass of floating paper, maize husks, mosquito larvae and putrid water escaped from a broken sewer that is an open gutter which perhaps now better defines the road than that name Nineteenth.