When people die in Lagos, their souls go to heaven. Irrespective of their lifestyle, good or bad deeds, religious beliefs, and all, one thing remains clear: All Lagosians go to heaven.
Ever wondered why that is? Because for every dead Lagosian, there’s always someone to cry and say, ‘That boy na good boy. God don collect am’.
I was privileged to witness the mourning of one Agbero in my area. His name was Jamiu, and he had the meanest look ever. Jamiu had a scar on his neck A mean ugly scar which began on his lower left cheek, and ran down his neck. Giving him a ferocious look. The story on the street has it that Jamiu acquired that scar when he killed 4 policemen in a street raid, and became a hero. A hero of the Agberos.
I moved into the area a year ago, young, fresh, and bubbly on a Saturday. The next day, I had to visit a public for-profit match-viewing centre to catch up on the latest Arsenal game.
After the first half, I grew thirsty, and needing a drink ordered a bottle of cold La Casera.
“Can I have a chilled bottle of La Casera?” I called out in my confused Brimerican accent.
A new seat mate joined me at that moment. He was unsmiling, spotting a sneer that reminded me of all the childhood pictures of Lucifer. He was really dark in complexion, and all he needed to fit right in hell was a bit of red skin, a long tail, and a pitch-fork.
“Guy, give me one bottle of Star” He placed his too.
I was scared to steal a glance. But I knew my bill had increased. This was Lagos, I was with an evil Agbero, and nobody was challenging him.
Our drinks arrived, and while I kept staring at mine, Jamiu, drank 5 bottles of beer, all on me. The most painful part of the episode was when I discovered he wasn’t even an Arsenal fan.
That day I cursed Jamiu, and till date, avoided him like a plague. I never greeted Jamiu, or acknowledged his presence, but he was always hanging on the street, staring at me with angry eyes, like I owed him money.
I even had to take part in an online self-defence course, specifically for Jamiu. One day he would attack, and I would be ready for him.
But Jamiu never attacked. He never attacked because he died before he could.
On my way to work last week, my street was unusually crowded. People had formed a semi-circle around a spectacle. I approached, peeped through cautiously, and what I saw gave me a shocker.
Lying lifeless on the floor was Jamiu, or what was left of him. He had been shot twice in the chest, with 2 wounds laced with dried blood bearing testimony of how he met his end.
His eyes were still open, and I could still see the terror in there. Even in death, Jamiu looked mean.
From what I gathered, a rival terror group had marked him for death due to a wrong he committed, and they had repaid the gesture.
I walked away, shaking my head. All I could think about was how my self-defence have been wasted. Poor Jamiu. Someone got to him before I could.
People cried and wailed for Jamiu, and many called him a hero. Some even blessed his soul and his ‘kind heart’, and wished him peace in heaven. I didn’t argue. Bless his ‘gentle’ soul.
I guess Jamiu went to heaven, Every Lagosian is a candidate for the pearly gates. Only in Lagos do thugs go to heaven. Why can’t the entire religious population of earth move to Lagos, and be assured of heaven? They’ll be dumb not to.
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