Omo Buhari: Diary of An Immigrant

Week 2:

I stared through my window, I saw a young man with his cap and shorts. He is definitely black, yes one of us. He must also have left his family for a land paved with gold on the streets. He sits with a young Asian lady, both smiling as they stare ahead, waiting for their ride-hailing service. I love the look on her face. It is the look of one who trusts that all is well in her world. The car arrives, and they hug themselves as they depart. He will definitely need to learn a lot of kung fu moves to stay with her. But what do I know?

These past few weeks have caused me to stare at the road; there is still a siren in the distance. The sound of water dripping from another apartment causes me to be wide awake. I know I checked; it is not from the bathroom. I stare at the road again, this time, my eyes focus on the Asian store down the road. I must get to see what is in there before I leave this part of town. Ahead, the road seems empty. The night here is not like back home.

I see a white security lady at the apartment as the young man re-enters his apartment. I wonder what he thinks if he could perhaps take the young lady home to his parents. I bet he is Nigerian. Our men know how to show genuine affection, including the Yoruba demons. The security lady in a short polo and black face cap seems to be the only other human I have had interaction with within the past week. I wonder if I can identify her in public. I stare at her as she stares at her laptop and a cup of coffee, I can’t see the name on the coffee.

Now that the drops from the bathroom have reduced, the other residents in the apartment must be done with their nightly showers. It reminds me of my ill-advised adventure to the Asian Lantern Festival. Staring at the rain while suffering the flu for the following week is an extreme sport. I am not sure I remember anything beyond the sound of the rain, the drops on my leather jacket, and the smell of the leather, days after I had been soaked by the rain.

I miss home, and I miss rain while at Yaba. I always get something for the cold. Warm water, a hot bath, as I place my kettle with water to boil over the small cylinder of gas in my kitchen.

I am told I have to be careful with how I pray, my groaning and shouting might be considered noise pollution. I am sure the way I notice things is how others might notice and report me too. It is midnight, and I love to sing and praise in the night. I really cannot wake Temitope, my praying partner, as she is in another world. I know she is fast asleep.

I remember praying into the night and stamping our feet so heavy on the ground, that our landlord, Daddy Ada, had to ask if all was well with our words. I mean, no one gets into trouble when our lovely neighbour dances through the night. But then, it is a rented house.

Truthfully, I will pick Afrobeats music disturbing the sound of my sleep or even Tobi’s drunken voice piercing through the night as he picks a fight with the street hooligans over the noise of dripping water from another man’s bathroom.

The water has stopped, but I hear the sound of birds. Are there any here in the city? Anyway, I force my attention to Lee Jun Ho, my latest K-Drama affection