On that bridge the night, at around 10-11:30pm. That bridge, leads to so many walks in Lagos. It is a beautiful bridge. A busy bridge. A bright bridge. Very beautiful, lit, and divided. It is, also, an African bridge, because, we came in contact with a ruined sacrifice at a divide, a corner. The third main-land bridge.
I began, “I would love to be an inventor.” I smiled. I was asked what I wanted to invent.
“I would like to live on the bridge. I’d build a beautiful house on it, and live there. It is beautiful.” I said, they laughed.
Who are they? My good friends. My other family. The ones whom I pour insults at and feel welcomed. Dammy. Peter. Daniel. Ayuba. Tobi. Myself. We. We took the bridge.
We arrived at Dammy’s place on Wednesday. I was there to find peace with my head after I was let down at home; while others were there for Dammy’s forthcoming production. It was a place too worthy to feel alive in.
I called my mother as soon as our arrival, after a thirty minutes prayer they performed, at Dammy’s. I told her I was not going to return home that day, because we were getting prepared for Dammy’s production. I lied.
“Won ti bi e re!” She blurted over the phone constantly, shielding my excuse, what seemingly looked like an information or a truth. I cut the phone and said I was not going to call her back.
“I told you they won’t hear me,” I told Peter and continued, “Do you wish to talk to her?”
I rang her line, and there she was, thinking I was the one speaking with her, as she continued with her fuss. Peter tried to let her know he was the one, and then, he spoke to her. I wasn’t interested in the conversation, so I left where he was till it ended. Peter told me their resolution when I returned, “She said you should call your dad.”
You know what that is? Trouble. So I ignored.
My dad called an hour later, but I intentionally missed it. And the next time they would call, it was through Peter’s phone. My mum yelling at me because I had missed a call from a supposedly Jude Iruhoha. Who cares? I do not know who he is, but there’s simply a connection: help. I needed a place for my I.T, so my mum reached one of his friends on my street to connect me with him.
I called him back. He asked my discipline and where I studied. His conclusion was to get back to me when he got a place for Presentation.
“Is radio station okay?” He asked, finally. I answered And I thanked and bid him bye.
We later decided to walk out in the beautiful night, so cold that I was smiling, as Tobi and I agreed on the bus, on our way to Dammy’s. We walked to Sura, and we took the vehicle bridge by foot, walking by the sides, on the concretes, with the rails as a support. That is where a beautiful journey began.
To others, the journey on the bridge was just a jaunt, but to Tobi and myself, it was a positive achievement. It was an achievement to me, because I wanted to tell a story about my love for heights, even though I am acrophobic. I wanted to tell a story about the beauty of life, through well, situated road-lights, aligned between the roads, that shone several oranges, hitting the ground and spreading across the roads. I wanted to tell a story of the beauty on a bridge. The story of a nightlife with friends.
We laughed as we mounted the bridge. Very beautiful. Smelly. Lit.
It was on this bridge that Afefe rang a bell in my ears better. On this bridge was where I connected with life. I found the connection of: love, care, joy, happiness, fulfilment, encouragement. It was on this bridge that I connected with life and my inner-self, where I made my oath not to recklessly take my life.
On this bridge, I learnt something: Difference. I learnt that we could be on the same track now, but we can’t stop at the same ends. I learnt that, through the bridge, there are so many ways to follow to accomplish yourself. That you have different walks at life, as well as different destinations. That it is just a bridge, but it has different ends for different routers.
Photography credit: Oluwatobiloba Kelani