The Red Skirt

“Give me my money! I say I no dey go again!”, a short woman in a vibrant ankara-print dress shouted at an irritated bus conductor. The traffic on the bridge was at a standstill and passengers were already getting off buses, choosing to walk their individual distance.

“Alaye calm down. We go soon move”, the conductor dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

You reclined your head and shut your eyes when a man bent next to your car. “Oga e be like say one pesin just die for front o”, he squinted at the sun before he spoke again, “E be like say pesin go tey for here”.

He eventually straightened and through your rearview mirror, you let your eyes follow him as he walked to the next vehicle to deliver the same news. The traffic eventually started to ease up and you got a glimpse of the lifeless figure in a red skirt.

The suicide rate in Lagos is getting alarming, you thought to yourself before speeding off.

This is the second time you saw me.

Do you remember?

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53 DAYS BEFORE

“Moni, wear this”, my mother held up a long red skirt. “Good men like decent girls”.

A few hours later, I was seated in a hall filled with eager women and seemingly entitled men. The banner above us which boldly read “Single Ladies’ Night” only seemed to fuel their ego.

I was finally walking home when you called out to me, “Sister wait!”. I stopped.

“I like this your skirt o. Do you mind if I get your number?” I caught your fading wedding ring as you unlocked your phone. I resumed walking when your friend appeared. “Sister, just give him your number now”.

“I have to leave”, I replied, steadying my voice when you grabbed me. The only thing I remember is the way the street light blurred as you grunted above me.

I was finally home and in the shower when my mother called out.

“Did they like the skirt?”

“Yes”, I responded truthfully.

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53 days later, you saw me again in the same position- my back against the ground, wearing the red skirt you liked so much.

You were right. The suicide rate in Lagos is getting alarming.

But so is the rate of murder.