By Minah – For Crackko’s Chaos Compendium
1: The Landlord, The Keke, and The Vanishing Mic
It’s a hot Tuesday. You’re indoors. Zobo in hand. One leg on the bed like a Yoruba uncle watching Netflix and lying to himself.
Then —
GBAM! GBAM!! GBAM!!!
The kind of knock that either starts deliverance or ends tenancy.
You open the door.
It’s your landlord. Again.
Face red like pepper stew. Breathing like a retired area boy. And he goes:
“You’re using too much water.”
You want to respond with facts or fists. But you smile like a UN peace envoy and say:
“Just used small to wash clothes.”
Wrong answer.
This unlocks his TED Talk on water efficiency in post-war Germany.
“Over there, they rinse plates with sense!”
You want to say: “Sir, they don’t rinse soap with gutter water.”
But your ancestors whisper: “No wahala today.”
You apologize. Smile. Try to close the door.
He wedges his leg in. Peeks inside like he expects to catch you boiling human parts.
Your mood? Gone. Dead.
You pack your bag. Lagos can’t possibly disgrace you more.
Lagos: “Bet.”
You hop in a keke. ₦500 fare. You hand ₦1000. Driver gives ₦400.
You: “Where’s my ₦100?”
Him: “You no know say change don finish for this country?”
Before you can curse him in three languages — he zooms off.
Your gear’s still in the back. Tripod. Mic. Ring light. Your entire career.
You chase him. You become Fast & Furious: Oshodi Drift.
He looks back. And laughs.
You end up on a bench. Drinking warm La Casera from a bottle you didn’t buy. Questioning your life choices. Sweating. Humble.
Then you trek home. Because Uber is for those not in character development school.
You’ve lived a full Nollywood trilogy before noon.
2: I Built a Clown (And Now He Won’t Stop Performing)
I knew from the first voice note that this man wasn’t funny.
But I lied.
I laughed.
He cracked a joke about the “P” in pneumonia.
I replied:
“LMAOOOO you’re MAD 😭😭😭😭😭”
I called him “chaotic.”
I sent a voice note snort.
When he said, “Why don’t eggs tell jokes?” I replied:
“STOPPPP 😭😭😭😭😭”
Brick by brick, emoji by emoji —
I built him.
Like a Nigerian parent building confidence in their child with lies and prayer.
Now?
He thinks he’s the second coming of Trevor Noah.
He drops one-liners with chest. Repeats his own punchlines. Quotes himself like he’s scripture.
The day he said, “I feel like cars have feelings” — I blinked.
Smiled.
Said “Hmm.”
He paused.
“That one didn’t slap, abi?”
Me: “No no, I’m just… tired.”
But the truth sat in my throat like undercooked eba.
He was never funny.
I created a monster.
Now I sit through every “Knock knock” like it’s a TEDx talk on delusion.
And I can’t correct him.
Because that would mean confessing:
I was the clown all along.
3: I Left the Group Chat (Because ₦20k Can’t Buy Rose Petal Pancakes)
Someone said: “Let’s go out.”
I should’ve left then.
But I stayed.
Maybe it would be suya on concrete. Malt under a bridge. Vibes and jollof in the gutter of community.
Then someone dropped the menu.
Fried rice: ₦170,000.
Not with goat meat. Not in a duplex. Just rice and vibes.
They started planning aesthetics.
“Neutral tones 🦿️⬜?”
“Let’s rent a photographer!”
“They serve mojitos with dry ice and affirmations!”
Me?
In wrapper. With ₦20k. Plotting how many sachets of pure water could be a meal.
Then came the final straw:
“Let’s split the bill equally so it’s fair 😭😭”
Another said:
“Let’s Uber there together”
Another:
“I might wear heels. This fit deserves it!”
I exited the group chat like a silent protestor.
No drama. No explanation. Just poof.
Ten minutes later:
“Babes why’d you leave 😭😭😭”
I replied:
“Network.”
They posted brunch pics.
I replied:
“Y’all look so good 🥺🫶🏽”
Like a supportive ancestor in exile.
Truth?
I wanted to go.
But my bank account said:
“No be you 😂”
So I stayed home.
Warmed gala. Poured zobo in a wine glass. Put on chill lo-fi beats. Called it DIY brunch aesthetics.
And I had peace.
And ₦200 change.
Chaos Compendium
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