98

From the bridge, Amaka saw smoke rising from the road. She turned off to descend into Oshodi. A crowd was ahead on the road, moving between cars, wielding sticks and stopping motorists.

‘Oh no,’ Amaka whispered leaning over the steering wheel. She had seen this before; the sweating, half-naked young men; the spectators lining the sides of the road, standing on the kerb, hands in the air, taking pictures and recording videos on their phones. The men surrounded her car. She revved the engine. Some turned to look at her; one banged on her bonnet. She tucked her phone into her skirt and opened the door; someone ran into it as it swung open.

Gripping the top of the window that had caught him in the chest, a lanky young man bent down and scowled at Amaka. She stared back at him and he hissed, let go of the door, and walked away into the crowd.

Amaka put one leg out onto the road. She stood behind the open door and watched the gathering mob. In their midst, black smoke rose in a spiral. In the air, a familiar smell. She stepped out, closed the door, and walked into the crowd.