‘Chale, I dey go house wey my fuel short. Make you sort me out.’
Impetuous, inane, puerile ... thing; moulding pie with putrid hubris for filling. Demanding dough with a sense of entitlement. I stone-face him, power up the window and cruise down Spintex Road.
‘Oh, you no go sort me out?’ he barks.
He does not say ‘please’ once. In my rear-view mirror, he’s already trudging up Spintex Road.