Chapter 1: The Hustle Never Ends

I be locksmith. I get one bad habit: I dey secretly spoil people lock for their door before time. For this Lagos, even cockroach dey hustle for night, so man must find way.

My brother, sometimes I go clap my hand for joy inside my mind—this my wahala dey sweet me pass ogbono soup, but I dey always hide am for my mind. For this Lagos, if you no sharp, hunger fit finish you quick quick. E no mean say I wicked; na just way to survive. Na condition make crayfish bend.

After that, I go paste my small locksmith business card for wall.

I dey use ordinary gum paste am, sometimes cellotape if I dey hurry. Rain go wash am, but next day I go paste another one—na so we dey do for Lagos. Even children for compound dey laugh say dem sabi my card pass their own papa. "Oga Bello, you no dey tire? Abi na you dey lock us outside?" Dem go talk, but na hustle be this.

When the people come find say their door don lock them outside, na me dem go call for help.

You go hear their wahala for phone: "Ah! I dey late for work! Abeg!" Or sometimes na small pikin lock mama outside. Las las, na me go save the day, sharp sharp.

Na so I dey make sure say customers no dey finish for my side.

If dem dey share award for sense, e suppose reach my hand. As long as Lagos still dey, my customer no go ever finish, God no go shame us.

But tonight, e get as e be. Person wey don die already na im call me come work.

As I remember this part, my body cold like Harmattan breeze wey blow for Jos. E never happen to me before—na only for Nollywood film I dey see this kain thing. But who go believe say dead body fit get my number?