“No do gra-gra for me. Omo let me romance you.” La Ray’s song looped endlessly in my head. I choreographed. I was crammed in the back row of a tricycle car called, Keke Marwa. The driver had thought himself smart squeezing four of us in. “Oga, you dey slim now, you go fit,” he persuaded. And because I’d already waited too long for transportation, I shrugged. Better than hanging around an unknown place at night.

It didn’t fit. I sat angled, one bum at the edge of the seat, no backrest, partially facing the other guys. Nothing would stop my flow. I’d just landed my first paying gig in a totally crazy way. I’d been watching a dance show, saw a thief, tried to catch the thief, got lied on, and beaten up. Backing up from the bullies, I limped unto the dance arena and the maestro hailed my moves. “Come see me,” he said. And the rest is this history.

Right arm up, fist bump, sprinkle. Left arm worm, wrist to shoulder. Hands together. Fireworks. The guy at the end of the row signed, “Hello!” He wore an brand t-shirt, black jeans, and sneakers. He looked well-groomed. Likely he knew how to sign “hello.” Big deal. I ignored him. He’d mistaken my hand movements for communication. I switched moves. Sign language, Allie, Mom, and her dad, were the part of my life I left back in Georgia. Lagos was about being my own man and finding my dad.

We sat in traffic. No matter where you go or time of day in Lagos, expect traffic. Sometimes, the cause is soon resolved. Other times, it could last hours. My stomach growled and I looked around for a street vendor. No vendors. Typically, you could buy any and everything in Lagos traffic including dinner, drink, and bedtime snack.

A hush passed from the cars ahead of us to ours. “Won se operation n’iwaju.” The driver was clearly agitated as were the guys sitting next to me. One asked to be let out. The driver tried to reason with him that he had nowhere to go. He’d just make himself an easy target.

“What’s going on?” I asked. No response. They spoke rapid Yoruba, a language I didn’t yet understand when spoken slowly. I knew, “wa” – come, “sokale” – come down, “dide” – stand up, and “owo” – money. I tried to turn around to poke my head out of the window. As I wriggled, I noticed the hello guy signing frantically.

“Don’t move. There are robbers on the highway.” His eyes were bulging; his hands moved frantically. He wasn’t joking. “They’re going from car to car demanding passengers’ valuables.

“What?” I signed back.

“You speak sign language?” He looked elated.

“Yes, my baby sister is deaf.”

“Wow! My name is Benji,” he signed.

“Kola.” It wasn’t a time to make friends but whatever.

The hush in the traffic was broken only by sounds of boots and slams. “Oya, bring your money!”

“More!” “Madam, big bag like this, you no get money?”

“And your gold.” With each command, the armed robbers grew closer to our cab. I began to shake.

Benji signed. “Don’t say a word. You have a foreign accent. Just give them whatever they want. BUT, DON’T SAY A WORD!”

“School boy, where your phone?” I handed over third phone since coming to Lagos. Like the previous two, this one would end up in the hands of thieves. Perhaps, I didn’t need a phone after all. The thieves badgered everyone into dropping their valuables into their sacks.

Then, the leader of the pack shook the sack. “All of you; this is the only thing you have? You better produce more money or I will minus one of you.”

He waived us out of the cab with his AK47. We dropped to the ground and began begging for our lives. “Oga, please Sir. Market no good today,” the driver groveled.

The robbers went from person to person as we lay prostate on the ground. “You there, Omo guy.” He poked my back with the barrel of his gun. I looked at his masked face. “How much you get?”

“I don’t…” I started then I remembered I sounded like a foreigner. But, I couldn’t fake a local accent right now even if my life depended on it. “Don don ah ah…” I finished on a screech.

“What is wrong with your mouth?” The hoodlum kicked me. “Get up and talk like a man. All these yeye boys…na dem go school.”

I said nothing. I wish I’d found my real dad. Actually, I wish I’d been nicer to Allie, Mom, and my step-dad. I wish I’d never left home.

“Oga, he no dey talk o,” the Driver told the robbers. “Him and him brother.” Benji and I were searched. When they came up empty, the robbers took our clothes and sneakers. By the time they moved on to the next car, I was dead on my feet.

The driver, out of pity for two deaf guys, dropped us off at Stadium Road. Benji had to hold me up.