Her twists and turns were almost professional, if only they had been coordinated. I could feel the earth moving beneath me. The nauseating feeling of the vomit was distracting me from the woman’s performance.

The makeshift chair I am sitting on is a small billboard, propped up by a couple of stones. I cannot sit anymore. The pain is moving round my belly. I stand, trying to walk away the pain. I kick away a can of Malta Guinness like a footballer. My uncle’s son was a footballer. Even if I walk to Alakpere, the pain will follow me.

This is not the first time it is happening. Every morning, for a while now I would go into this routine of vomiting.

Did I tell you the time? It is morning oh, but the way the sun is shining na wa o.

A small crowd was gathering. Few are concerned passers-by, majority are just hungry for typical Lagos entertainment. People who know her are trying to stop her, but she retaliates by spitting at them.

Some of the other women who sell drinks are talking and pointing. They know the woman and are shaking their heads. I am sure they are blaming the witches in the woman’s village.  Even those small gala boys are no longer hounding bus passengers to buy gala.

I pick up the empty can of Malta Guinness. The top has been ripped off so I vomit into it.  I can see strands of the aboki’s indomie.

The woman has left her wares and wrapper; one of those Fashola people is here, in his unkempt yellow uniform. He is looking rather pleased by the sizeable diameter of her breasts and is enjoying the show. She is now chasing another woman with a big fancy gele and baby.

The officer follows her in hot pursuit, and calls his colleagues. She will be the topic of discussion in many houses. I should tell Rosco too, like I am telling you.

She is back now, and she is pointing and shouting for her driver. She put her hands as if she is driving one of those danfo and making horn sounds with her mouth. The uniformed men are attempting to guide her off into the bush.

I shake my head in pity. I want to go back to my house. I have walked far today, all in a day’s job. I tug at my stomach, the rancid taste of vomit in my mouth. Am i pregnant? I know Rosco is the father. I don’t love him but he is the only fool that touches me.

Maybe I am mad. Thinking that Rosco will want a baby, he even thinks I am mad.  I pick up my latest trinkets, an empty bottle of shampoo and a discarded eyeliner bottle. Tonight I will look good for Rosco.

I promise not to tell him anything, at least not yet. Promise me you won’t tell him.