After church service, mom drives us to dad's office to pick him up. With all of us in the car some minutes later, mom let go of the steering wheel as we wait for the traffic light to change.

"So, should we buy bananas for today's fried rice?"

I wonder if Faith is already back from mass must already be back from mass service. I am a Protestant, and my church service ends later than hers. Regardless, she might not bother me. Faith has been quiet lately.

"Oh, is it because I paid for the repair of my car engine that you think I have money?" Dad queries mom, and I scratch the scalp of my head harshly.

His car was bought used and has been in the family for over a decade, and I believe it needs to rest permanently. But just like my admission, he refuses to budge.

Mom takes us down the street when the traffic light turns green, and the only sound made in the car is from the car engine.

The roads are empty except for the wavy green trees and cattle feeding on shrubs and herders.

I still do not know why buying fruits had to breed a fight.

Near a grazing cattle lay a figure under the shade of a tree. I draw closer to the car window and see a woman in a wrapper sleeping, with a baby sucking at her breast.

"Really? She is sleeping there in the open?" Mom talks to no one in particular, with her nose nearing the seat window.

"Do you think she has a house? Please take us to where they sell bananas. I remember now that I have 350 naira with me."

Kai, daddy.

Parking the car in front of a building with traders of different foodstuffs, dad signals the two teenagers at the edge of the street, and they hurry towards our sienna bus in a frenzy.

Dad turns to me in the back seat. "Joy, some traders are selling bananas for 400 naira, but watch me negotiate the price to 350."

Wearing a sleeveless dress, I use my hands to fan myself as the sun's heat prickle my skin.

They arrive, and dad winds down his window.

The boy grins. "Oga."

"Yes, how much for the banana?"

"Em, 2500-naira sir."

"Get out! Get out of here. See this small boy oo, what nonsense!" Dad snaps at the outrageous price. I cover my lips to avoid bursting out in laughter.

The girl fidgety moves forward. "Sir, mine is 800," She whispers.

"There is no food at home. Sir, please," The boy stares desperately at my dad.

The two seek like they are my age.

Dad does not respond for a moment and considers it.

"What about 400," Dad pities her.

"Sir, please add 200."

"Sorry, dear," He nudges my mom to drive us away.

As we leave for a nearby plaza, I steal a look at the child hawkers. The boy returns to the dirty end of the road with who I presume is his sister. They both hold their fruits in the air as cars speed past them. There is a look in their eyes that they would have something to eat for the night.

They could inevitably be leaders someday.

The next trader we approach is much older and next to a well-known store with a bouncer guarding its entrance.

When dad tells my mom to stop there, he faces the lady.

"Give me some banana."

"Okay," She hurries to a wide tray with fat ones on it.

"No, madam. Do not bring those and start calling big money, and bring small ones."

"Ah!" Facing us, the woman starts clapping at him mockingly. "E reach to vex?"

Dad does not answer. But yes, he was getting angry already.

While selecting the bundles of bananas on the tray, the trader is interrupted by the guard who leaves his post to tell her things that I cannot make out.

Slowly, she returns to us. "Abeg, sir, they said you should move from here. Sir, no vex, these people own Abuja."

The last time I offered social studies, Abuja was a state, and Nigeria was a democratic republic. I do not think anything has changed since then.

"Eh? Let his boss come here first and see if I will not close this street. What nonsense, Abuja is for everyone," Dad tells the woman and points straight at the bouncer.

Understanding the message, the man slowly returns to the store's entrance doors. How dad carries himself and speaks has many assuming he is a politician or in a higher political position, not a low-earning lawyer.

After he hands her 350 naira for a bunch of little bananas, she leaves us with one last statement.

"I do not blame you; it is mama that goes to the market."

Driving along the streets leading to the home, we see the same woman who sleeps as the child fondles her breast.

"The woman should be careful. Someone could kidnap her child."

"Why would you say that?" My mom sounds agitated.

My dad looks at her, then the road and returns to her.

"It is because you have not been to Benin in a while. Even in any part of this country, you should understand that some people want to make quick money."

His eyes pierce my face through his side window.

"I hope you are learning."

"Yes, dad."

The gateman appears soon after mom parks at the gates.

"I read in an article last week that they were kidnapping children. They sell boys for 150,000 naira and the girls minus 50,000 naira."

I am not shocked but get out of the car when we are finally inside the compound.

Faith's mother is also near her car and smiles at us.

"Good afternoon Mama Joy. Good afternoon Sir," She acknowledges my parents.

"Good afternoon Ma. Hello Chikamso and Chikaima." I greet Faith's mom and her little children. My parents barely glance at her as they walk together into the block of the apartment.

Faith comes out of the car and almost trips on herself.

"Faith, are you okay?" I try to help her, but she resists.

"Can you mind your business, Joy?" She snaps at me. "I did not fall at the end, so stop pretending as if you care."

My eyes widen as she walks away.

"Faith!" Her mom yells at her.

"Yes, mom? I need to go and warm the food we will eat." Faith tells her with a pissed expression.

"Okay then, I will see you later."

Her mom then approaches me with a smile. "Ignore what she said. Faith has been feeling extremely anxious nowadays. I think it's the external exams that are getting to her,"

"Don't worry about it, ma'am. It is alright," I tell her as she rubs my shoulders.

Before I enter the house, I hug Chikamso and Chikaima.

The weather is so warm I have to use a hand fan to cool my body down. The blue curtains in our apartment are apart to let fresh air enter the room.

"Mom, did Osas tell you about a national public university strike?"

"No, he didn't tell me about that."

The only noise that fills the living room is of our neighbours' generators put to use.

I go to the kitchen, where mom gives me a cutting board and three large onions.

"That is more reason you should leave here," She washes the rice.

"But mom, what is with the hurry?"

"Are you alright or what?" She pours the rice into a boiling pot.

"But mom -"

"Do not talk. Maybe you are why your father does not want you to school abroad." Her voice becomes threatening.

"Joy, this country is going through problems."

My eyes almost pull off of their sockets. "Of course, I know that. Even my wealthy classmates know that."

"Then why do you keep questioning me?"

"It is just that. Do you think God answers prayers?"

She folds her hands. "Why do you say that?"

Sighing, I pick the sharpest knife to peel the onion's skin.

I am doing this on top of a fridge older than me in the apartment where I have spent most of my life. The roof was already brown from heavy rain over the years, and we did not pay someone to paint it to minimize our debt. 

Nothing has changed for the better in our lives, and she is asking me this? But it was not her fault; none of my parents wanted this life for me.

Do not worry, mom." I reply to her. "Forget it."

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