The Melancholic Millennial

   Photo credit: Business Day NG “Approaching Murtala Muhammad Train Station, Alagomeji. Please…” Shit. David hadn’t stuck the camera to the roof yet.  I felt like slapping urgency into him, but the purpling gash across his face, courtesy of The Gambia, would make anyone unthink confrontation. The men stashed somewhere in Alagomeji had probably thought enough. So, this final photo was now or never. “Amina, I’ll ensure you’re fine.” His drill was still harassing the cabin’s roof. I wished I had that job instead of being in a burqa clutching a beretta—our contingency plan, if Ahmad, sprawled like  road-kill on the floor, awoke before cue.  A month ago, David’s plan for Trainwreck approached my hidden lens outside Lagos Pension Commission where I was demanding any available justice for my mum. He told me about Ahmad and how he had been priming the young man for today. “David, I won’t be fine.” I could be fine if David's photos were published before the President signed Mutkar Bello’s