You know how you always want to look very good on Mondays before going to class, right? I only felt the urge to look good on Tuesdays for reasons even I don't understand. Lol. On this particular Tuesday, I woke up an hour earlier than normal to iron my new suit again and polish my shoes. It was the beginning of the semester, and I had missed Monday on purpose because, I mean, we all agree that Mondays are boring, right? Yeah. Also, I wanted her to ask about me and maybe call me, you know, to see if I'm her thing. Do you also feel the urge to weigh your importance, or is it just me?

I have to admit, my suit was fire, and don't even get me started on those hot boots Aunty Nene got me. I admired my handsomeness for about 5 minutes before I realized I'd be late if I spent more time admiring my perfection. "I don pass oh," is what I said as I walked past my mom who sat just in front of our parlor door. "Shebi your transport will be enough to carry you? Fuel don cost oh," she said, offering to add some money to me. Who am I not to accept extra money? Malabor ain't for the weak. I collected it, gave her a high 5, and walked away.

Now, I have to give you some details which are not very important but were a very common experience for me. I know I've said this to you more than 50 times, but my mind will not rest if I fail to repeat it. Boarding a taxi was annoying af. Not just getting the taxi, but the fact that I had to sit close to those palm-oil-stained women going to Marian Market made me hate going to school early in the morning. But if I didn't go early, Prof Alobam wouldn't let me in, so I had to figure out something - getting the front seat. Yes, getting the front seat in a taxi I boarded meant that I'd have the seat to myself and would escape the oil-stained fat/sweaty women at the back. At least that's what I thought.

Yelling "Main gate" and waving my hand was my way of getting taxis going my way to stop for me. But on that Tuesday, I couldn't get a taxi, and time was not on my side. "Etta Agbor," an alternative to "main gate," got me this surprisingly clean mini-bus. "Etta Agbor by where?" The driver asked as he looked through his rear mirror to see who stopped him. "By main gate," I replied. "I no dey go that way," he retorted. I wish I could accurately write how disappointed I was. "I wan turn go Atimbo," he continued. I gave him the "IDGAF" look. He zoomed off and stopped a few meters away, lifted his left arm from his window (if that's what it's called) and signaled me to come. I didn't have a choice; I had to run down and board the bus.

We finally got to the main gate; I paid him his money, and this was when my best nightmare started.