Life on Cash street is nothing near its name—a kind of Trench Town painted by the great Bob Marley in one of his classics. Cash street had gotten its name from the false lives of its residents—street urchins at the ready to stealthily cart away your priced possessions; well, my priced possession—the pregnant keyboard Nokia phone had been stolen earlier, unfaithful housewives running salons as joints of gossip, underperforming men with big bellies who spend the whole day at the bars, pre-teen and teenage thugs with no barrier to gender, a place of shanties with no trace of the 21st century except for the power lines that has never produced light—Cash my foot!
Taju, as popularly called, is a nine-year old funny kid who lives everywhere. He knows everyone on Cash street. He had crawled the street. He even crowned himself the king of Cash last year—a well-deserved title I presume. Even though it took Taju years to desist from calling Cash street ‘Cas’ street, he was the sweetest kid—or so I thought.

It was an ordinary day at the office when I met Taju so full of life, a contrast to mine; I had lost my phone, a total account balance of N175 under the pillow, the thought of being slapped by a bus conductor still lingered but this time, he had a business proposal for me which I had no choice but to follow through. We walked Cash street like the ‘usuals’—you have to be fierce in composure else, you’d be jacked by thugs. Taju’s presence could have protected me more than my physique should have him for he was everyone’s favourite.

Taju and I saw the regulars—the joint newspaper readers. He said he can’t phantom the fact that grown men will wake up, wear a flimsy suit, leave their houses in the morning, carry a poorly made ‘China’ bag and head to the junction to read the dailies. I only responded with ‘uhm’. If only Taju knew I was one of them before he was born…

*

We got to the site where the business was to be carried out. Taju had brought me to bet on a chicken fight—this is ridiculous, I thought. I couldn’t process the whole scene. This son of the devil, Taju, had been warned by his mother, who owns a salon, not to indulge in such acts. I looked at the men psyching up the chickens and they reminded of Chicken George, the slave who saved his family by betting and playing chicken. With going back not an option, I played on a chicken, a sum of N170…total account balance standing at N5.00 as at 16:48 GMT.

The match began. The chickens fought tooth and nail…like gladiators in the Roman amphitheatre—the Colossus. Well, to cut the story short, ‘our’ chicken lost. The flimsy chicken from the pit of hell didn’t last the round as it laid on the ground needing a CPR or slap—I really didn’t care. Crowd dispersed with jeers and cheers mixed up but I couldn’t find Taju so I began to look for him. I negotiated a corner and could hear his voice and another guy’s. I peeped and saw Taju counting N5…N20 and N50 notes that amounted to a sum of N110. He fist-bumped the guy and they walked opposite directions. I cornered the guy and queried that transaction with my ‘nephew’. He said Taju promised to bring a bloke who ended up placing N170 on a chicken that Taju knew would lose and that he owned the chicken.

Chai! Jesus! I muttered.

Taju had swindled me but if I had been smart enough, I would have dotted the lines when he said he had spent the PTA levy that was due for payment the following day.
Another day at the office for Taju—a ragamuffin of Lagos had his way.

By: Oyinloye Oluwafemi

Nice one, funny and short.

johnwizey:
Nice one, funny and short.

indeed