Book Title: Na Inside Gutter Hope Start
Chapter One: Na Inside Gutter Hope Start
Dem say Lagos na city of dream, but for my side, e be like city of wahala. My name na Kunle, and if you ask anybody for our compound for Ajegunle, dem go tell you say I be that boy wey life show pepper but still dey smile. I no go lie, I no grow up with silver spoon — in fact, I no even see spoon at all. Na hand I take chop life.
The first sound wey I sabi for this world no be lullaby, na generator noise. The smell wey I grow with no be flower perfume, na gutter and burning plastic. If rain fall, e no dey sweet us — e dey scatter everywhere. You go just wake one morning see your mama slippers dey float go another person door. That one na normal thing for our area.
My papa, before e die, na danfo driver. Him dey always wear one brown cap wey no dey ever wash. Sometimes e go come house late night, eyes red like kerosene lamp. I remember one time, I ask am,
"Papa, why your eye dey always red?"
E laugh say,
"My pikin, na Lagos smoke. E dey enter eye."
I no understand that time, but now I sabi — e no be smoke, na stress. Lagos stress no get respect.
When papa die, I be just 9. Mama come be everything — father, mother, friend, and sometimes, even hope itself. That woman hustle pass machine. She dey sell eko and moin-moin for market, under sun and rain. Sometimes I dey follow her go. I go hold one dirty tray, shout "Buy your hot eko! Eko oni baje o!" but people go just waka pass like say I no exist. I go look my mama face, she go just say,
"No cry, Kunle. E go better."
That "e go better" be like music wey keep me alive. Even though I no see how e wan better that time, I believe am because na mama talk am.
The Compound Wey Be Battlefield
Our compound na world on its own. People dey fight for water, fight for space, fight for everything. Every morning you go hear,
"Madam, why you carry my bucket?"
"No be your bucket jare, na my own wey I buy for mile 12!"
And from that small quarrel, full-blown war go start. Children go cry, women go curse, men go carry stool come outside to watch the drama like say na cinema.
We no get light steady, so night dey always dark like grave. When NEPA bring light, everybody go shout "UP NEPA!" as if we win World Cup. Me and my small sister, Titi, go run outside to charge mama small Nokia phone. Na that phone she dey use find customers. If phone die, business go suffer.
The day wey landlord increase rent from ₦8,000 to ₦10,000, mama cry. She sit for corner, hold her wrapper tight. I no fit stand am. I swear say,
"Mama, no worry. I go find work. I no go let dem chase us."
That night, I no sleep. I just dey reason how to make money. I be 13 that time, small but my mind don big pass my age.
Street Hustle Begin
The next morning, I waka go market. I meet one man wey dey load bus. I beg am say make I dey help carry load. The man look me from head to toe say,
"You fit carry this one?"
I say, "Try me, oga."
Na so I start dey hustle. Every ₦50 wey I get that time na treasure. I go hide am under my bed for one old tin tomato can. After one week, I carry ₦1,200 give mama. She look me say,
"Kunle, where you get am?"
I say, "I dey hustle for park."
She cry again — not because e bad, but because she no believe her small pikin don turn man. She hug me, whisper say,
"Olorun ma bukun ẹ. (God go bless you.)"
From that day, my life change. I no longer be small boy. I be provider.
But street no soft o. I see things wey make person heart hard. I see small boys like me dey follow agbero collect money from bus drivers. I see girls of 14 dey hawk gala inside traffic till midnight. I see men dey fight for ₦100 change. Lagos be like jungle — if you no sharp, e go swallow you.
Sometimes, I go come back home with wound. Mama go clean am, blow am small, then apply spirit. That spirit dey burn die. I go shout,
"Mama, e dey pain me!"
She go say,
"Better make e pain you now, than make infection kill you later."
She always get sense.
The Dream Wey No Die
Even with all the wahala, I still get dream. I wan go school. I wan learn English well, make I fit speak like people wey dey for TV. I wan be something better — maybe engineer or musician, I no even sure. But I just know say I no wan die poor.
Every evening when I dey rest for corridor, I go see children dey wear uniform pass our street. Dem go laugh, hold lunch box, dey sing school song. Sometimes, I go feel pain for my chest. Not because I envy dem, but because I know say me suppose dey there too.
One day, I meet one teacher wey dey live for next street. Her name na Aunty Chioma. She see me dey push wheelbarrow, she call me,
"Small boy, you no suppose dey do this kind work at your age."
I tell her say, "Aunty, I wan go school but money no dey."
She smile, look me well, then say,
"If you serious, come my house every evening. I go teach you small small."
That day, na joy full my body. I no even get book or pen, but I borrow one from my friend for compound. Every evening after market, I go run go meet Aunty Chioma. She go teach me how to spell, how to read small, and how to write my name properly.
The day I write "Kunle Adewale" by myself for paper, I no fit hide my happiness. I show mama, she dance say,
"Omo mi ti kọ orukọ rẹ̀!" (My child don write his name!)
Na that day I start to believe say even street boy fit dream.
The Night of Fire
But happiness no dey last long for poor man. One night, around 1 a.m., I hear people shout. I jump wake. Smoke full everywhere. Fire don catch one room for back. Before we fit reason, flame don spread. People dey run up and down, dey carry bucket of water. Mama grab Titi, I grab small bag wey get our document.
We run outside. Our house dey burn. I stand for road dey cry like baby. All the small things wey we get — clothes, pots, plates — everything don turn ashes.
That night, we sleep outside church gate. Pastor come out say make we enter. Na him give us mat to sleep. Mama no sleep that night. She just dey look sky, tears full her face. I sit near her, hold her hand say,
"Mama, no cry. God go build us another one."
She just nod.
For days, we no get where to go. Some of our neighbors go stay with family. Me and mama and Titi go stay inside one uncompleted building. Mosquito deal with us, but at least we get roof over our head. I go still go hustle every morning. Sometimes I go come back wet from rain, still smile because I no get choice.
The Blessing Weh Come From Nowhere
One afternoon, as I dey push wheelbarrow, I jam one big man motor by mistake. I fall down, the crate of drink wey I carry scatter. I fear die. I think say the man go beat me or call police. But the man just come down, help me stand. He look my leg say,
"You dey okay?"
I say, "Yes sir."
He ask my name, I tell am. He give me ₦5,000, say make I go buy medicine and food. I no believe my eye. That kind money I never hold before. I thank am, kneel down, even cry small.
That night, I buy food for mama and Titi. We chop jollof rice for first time in months. Mama ask where I see money, I tell her everything. She say,
"Sometimes, God go use stranger bless you."
I never forget that line till today.
Hope Dey Try Show Face
Weeks turn to months. We move from that uncompleted building to small one-room wey mama rent. I still dey hustle for market, but now I dey help mechanic sometimes. I like that work because e dey make me learn.
One day, my oga for mechanic workshop — old man wey dem call Baba Shola — look me say,
"Kunle, you get sense. If you continue like this, you go open your own shop one day."
Those words touch me. I no say anything, but inside me, something light up. Maybe my life fit really better.
Every Sunday, I go church with mama. She go always pray loud:
"God, bless my pikin. Make him hustle turn to success."
Sometimes, I go just close my eye and whisper, "Amen."
I no get big dream again like before. I just want peace. I want see mama smile. I want sleep without fear of eviction or hunger.
The Lagos Spirit
If Lagos teach me anything, e teach me say life no dey pity weak person. You go hustle, fall, cry, still stand again. Nobody go ask you how you dey survive. If you no push, hunger go push you. But I also learn say kind people still dey — even for the middle of wahala.
As I dey grow, I begin understand wetin papa mean when he talk say "Lagos smoke." E no be just traffic smoke. Na smoke of frustration, struggle, and survival wey enter everybody eye.
But inside that smoke, some people still shine. I tell myself say I go be one of dem.
That night, as I lie for bed, breeze blow enter window. I look sky, no star, only darkness. But I whisper small prayer say,
"God, if you dey hear me, no forget me."
Mama already sleep, Titi dey beside her, snore small small. I close my eyes, my stomach dey empty but my heart full of hope.
Because I believe say —
even for gutter, flower fit still grow.