THE MONEY COLLECTORS.

A wide community in the city of Ibadan was where Maami chose to raise me. 

A community which knew its own. Took charge of its own. Yet sometimes drank the blood of its brethren.

A community where the heavy smoke of shisha and marijuana was how the omo igboro said "hello Baami" to the creator of heaven and earth. Where the round-breasted and slim-waisted girls swept their "face me, I slap your compound" while gossiping about the latest pregnant girl. The community that the dreaded Nero was birthed in. That is the community I was raised.

My community is where the thief gets justification over the owner,Ọlù Agbọ́wọ́kà.

 A community where display of heroism, bravery, and murder takes place in daytime. Where a nine-year-old boy knows who the capon of the "ẹrujẹjẹ Àiyé" is but is not afraid. Ọmọ Àiyé never gets eaten by their own. 

In this community, I was washed and sanctified with the  boldness to speak my mind and call out the foolish man who tried to grab Arike's buttocks while she served him his miserable portion of "ẹwà fifty, rice hundred."

In the community of my lover, my enemy, my friend, my mother, and father.

 I have been raised with a gun and a machete. Nínú agbọ̀lé Agbọ́wọ́, I have found redemption but ọlúsọ̀ Agbá claims I have been bewitched. Perhaps the hefty deliverance by the riverside laden with soaked brooms might save me. Perhaps incisions from Baba Agbá who carries his ọ̀pẹ̀lẹ́ and stooping back with the grace of a kábíyèsì might set me free. 

But when all is said and done, call me Agbọ́wọ́ọ̀rì, ọmọ ità who fears no death.