The Lagos sun wasn't just heat; it was an aggressive creditor coming to collect a debt you didn't know you owed. At 8:30 AM in Akoka, the humidity was already thick enough to lather like soap.
Eniola stood by the roadside, her vision blurring from the diesel fumes of a passing "Yellow Devil" Danfo. She looked down at her reflection in a stagnant gutter—a murky soup of plastic sachets and black water. Her white shirt, which she'd scrubbed until her fingernails were raw, was already turning a depressed shade of grey.
Clack-flap. Clack-flap.
She took a step, and the sound made her soul shiver. The sole of her left shoe—a "Grade A" London-used pump she'd bought at Yaba Market three years ago—had finally decided to retire. It didn't just have a crack; it had a mouth. Every time she lifted her foot, the front flap opened wide like a hungry toddler, and every time she stepped down, it let out a wet, mocking thwack against the ground
"Sister! Hunger dey catch your shoe o!" a conductor yelled, hanging precariously off the side of a bus. "Give am gala! E go faint for road!"
Eniola didn't even hiss. To hiss, you need your mouth to be wet, and her mouth felt like she'd been chewing on a chalkboard eraser. She had exactly one hundred Naira left in her bag—her "emergency" fund. She couldn't afford a cobbler, and she definitely couldn't afford a bus.
She began the "Akoka Shuffle"—a tactical maneuver where she dragged her left foot in a slight semi-circle to keep the flap from opening. She was doing one sided struggling legwork while walking..
By the time she reached the "SPAR Supermarket" staff gate, her right calf was screaming in a language she didn't understand. The security guard, Babalola, was leaning against the gatehouse, picking his teeth with a sharpened broomstick. His stomach was so big it seemed to have its own gravity, pulling his uniform buttons to their complete limit.
"Interview is 9:00 AM, smallie," Babalola grunted, looking at his cracked Casio watch. "It is now 9:15. The Manager has already eaten two people this morning. You want to be the dessert?"
"Please, Sir," Eniola panted, her forehead dripping with sweat like a Christmas goat. "The... the road... there was a container that fell at Onipan."
"Container? In Lagos, even when a bicycle fall na 'container' when you dey late," Babalola laughed, He looked at her dusty forehead and the way she was awkwardly leaning on her right leg. "Go inside, the Manager dey inside Office 2. If you hear him shouting, don't run. If you run, he will think you stole something."
Eniola scurried past, her " leg work" forgotten in her haste.
Thwack. Slap. Thwack.
The hallway to the office was a narrow, windowless tunnel that smelled of industrial bleach and old cardboard. She knocked on the door of Office 2.
"Enter! Unless you are the landlord, then go away!" a voice barked.
Inside, Mr. Adewale, the manager sat behind a desk that was buried under a mountain of invoices. He was a small man with a neck that looked like a stack of wrinkled tires. His glasses were so thick his eyes looked like two frightened fish swimming in a bowl.
"You're late," he said, not looking up from a calculator he was punching with the intensity of a pianist.
"I am sorry, Sir. Eniola. I—"
"I don't care about your name yet. Names are for people who stay. Most people here last three days before they realize I am not their uncle. Why are you late?"
"I walked, Sir. From the junction."
Adewale finally looked up. He saw the sweat-stains under her arms that looked like the map of a forgotten continent. He saw the tear in her bag pinned together with a rusty safety pin. Then, she shifted her weight.
POP. The shoe flap let out a loud, wet sound in the tiny office.
Adewale stared at her foot. "Is that your shoe talking to me, or is the building finally collapsing?"
"It's the shoe, Sah. It... it has a loose soul."
"A loose soul? At least the shoe has a soul. Most people in this city lost theirs years ago," Adewale deadpanned. He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable minute. "I like you. You look like life has beaten you, but you're still standing. People who have everything are lazy. People who have a 'talking shoe' are desperate. And desperate people don't miss work."
He reached into a carton behind his chair and tossed a heavy, navy-blue apron at her. It hit her in the face, smelling of fried fish and warehouse dust.
"7:00 AM tomorrow. If you're one minute late, I will deduct the cost of a new pair of shoes from your first week. Now, get out. The sound of your clapping is giving me a migraine."