Photo-Africa with Victor Adewale: The “suite” life of commercial motorcycle riders
My father raised me with the money he earned from riding a commercial motorcycle in Lagos. He would leave very early in the morning, despite the chilly cold during harmattan seasons, and return late in the midnight, tired, exhausted, but with some squeezed Naira notes as consolation.
Some nights, he’d return with sad stories of how he had mistakenly received fake Naira note from a commuter or how he almost got hit by a reckless bus driver. Some other nights, he’d return home with a black nylon containing suya and the novels I requested he buy for me.
When I stared at his motorcycle sometimes, it reminded me though loosely of a woman battling in an abusive relationship, the dents on the mechanical skin, the groan of the engine when ignited. I hope that I will make him smile soon.