First To Do No Dey Pain

FIRST TO DO NO DEY PAIN

A Lagos Compound War Story

If you have never lived in a face me I face you compound in Lagos, then you have not truly experienced life. You may have tasted traffic. You may have survived fuel scarcity. But until you have lived wall to wall with another man who believes your property is community property, you have not suffered properly.

That was how I met Bro Sammy.

His real name was Samuel Adeyemi, but nobody called him that. In this compound, titles were earned by behavior. And Sammy earned his own.

When I first moved into the compound, I thought he was friendly. Too friendly. The type that helps you carry your mattress inside on moving day. The type that says welcome my brother as if you both survived the same war.

I did not know I had just signed up for a subscription service called Sammy Premium Access.

It started small.

First week, he knocked.

Guy abeg, I forget buy salt.

Normal. I gave him.

Two days later.

Chief, charger dey your side. My own spoil.

I gave him.

Next week.

Abeg I wan iron one cloth quick. Just five minutes.

The iron left my room and did not return until I went on a rescue mission.

Then bucket.

Then spoon.

Then plate.

Then cooking gas lighter.

Then my extension cord disappeared for three weeks until I saw it plugged into his TV.

The most painful part was not borrowing. It was the audacity. He never returned anything. You had to retrieve your own belongings like a detective tracking stolen goods.

Still, we were guys. I told myself, overlook it.

But Sammy was not just a borrower.

He was an opportunist.

If he heard laughter from my room, he would appear.

If he smelled meat cooking, he would knock.

If NEPA restored light and my fan started spinning, he would suddenly remember he needed to charge power bank urgently.

And the man had no shame.

One night, I ordered suya. Proper suya with onions and pepper. I was halfway through when he knocked and walked in without waiting.

Chief! You dey enjoy without your brother?

Before I could answer, he took one stick and dipped it into my pepper.

I laughed that day. Foolish laugh.

Because that was how the disrespect grew.

He would leave his slippers in front of my door like he lived there.

He would answer visitors and say yes he is inside before I even responded.

He once borrowed 2k urgent money and returned 500 two months later with confidence.

But I swallowed everything.

Until the babe came into the picture.

Her name was Amara.

Three months of talking stage. Three months of careful planning. Three months of saving small small to impress her.

She was not your average compound visitor. She liked scented candles. She posted brunch photos. She used words like aesthetic.

For three months I endured friend zone conversations. Finally, she agreed to come over.

I cleaned like my life depended on it.

Washed my curtains.

Mopped twice.

Bought new bedsheets.

Sprayed air freshener until even mosquitoes felt uncomfortable.

Cooked jollof rice that would make weddings jealous.

Bought Four Cousins wine.

Even wore perfume inside my house.

Then I went to Sammy’s door.

Guy, I get serious visitor today. Abeg behave yourself.

He laughed and slapped my back.

Chief relax. I go dey invisible.

That was mistake number one.

Amara arrived looking like Instagram filtered in real life. Soft perfume. Smooth voice. Polite smile.

The vibe was perfect.

Soft music.

AC blowing.

Wine uncorked.

I was in the middle of saying you look even more beautiful in person when disaster struck.

Gbigbigbigbi!

Door shaking like EFCC.

Before I reached the door, Sammy entered.

Shirtless.

Sweaty.

Holding a plate with leftover beans that looked like it fought a battle.

Chief gas don finish. Help me microwave this beans.

Amara’s face changed from soft smile to immigration officer.

Sammy saw her and winked.

Fine girl welcome. You try o. This one no too stingy like him.

Then he saw the wine.

Four Cousins? Chief you wicked.

He walked into my kitchen, poured a full glass, swallowed it like cough syrup, belched, and left.

Amara did not shout.

She simply stood.

If this is your environment, I cannot cope.

Bolt arrived.

She left.

That night I did not sleep.

I plotted.

But Sammy was not done offending me.

Days later, he started spreading gist in the compound.

Ah that girl? She say this guy no serious.

He told neighbors I begged her to come.

He told Mama Titi downstairs that I borrowed wine money.

I confronted him.

He laughed.

Guy na joke.

That was when I knew.

War was coming.

Then opportunity came.

One evening a clean Toyota Camry entered our compound.

Out stepped a lady shining like imported rice.

Human hair.

Gold wristwatch.

Confidence.

Sammy emerged wearing white caftan so stiff it could stand by itself.

He bowed.

He spoke softly.

He claimed he owned two properties in Lekki.

He told her he was temporarily staying here because renovation.

Renovation of what?

The man could not even renovate his gas cylinder.

I watched from my window.

They entered his flat.

I waited.

Thirty minutes.

I tied towel around my waist.

Brushed my teeth halfway.

Marched to his door.

Did not knock.

Entered.

They were seated.

Sammy pouring juice.

Speaking British accent.

Baby this compound is just investment property.

I shouted.

Sammy! Abeg key to toilet.

Silence.

I scratched my chest.

Sister welcome o.

Sammy turned pale.

I opened his fridge.

Saw juice.

Drank from carton.

Let some spill on my chest.

I said.

Sammy you never pay NEPA bill.

The girl looked confused.

You live here?

I replied.

We dey squat together.

He borrow 5k from me this morning.

The girl stood.

Sammy started stammering.

It is prank.

I added.

If you get small change help am.

Hunger dey wire us.

She left.

Car zoomed off.

Sammy returned looking destroyed.

Why?

He asked.

Because first to do no dey pain.

But that was not the end.

Sammy did not forgive.

He retaliated in petty ways.

He reported to landlord that my music too loud.

He borrowed my bucket and pierced it.

He told compound children I sell fake data.

He hid my slippers once.

But something changed.

He stopped entering my room uninvited.

He stopped borrowing.

He started knocking properly.

Because he knew.

I could go lower.

Weeks later, I saw him outside alone.

No visitors.

No big boy.

Just Sammy.

He sat quietly.

I almost felt pity.

Almost.

Then I remembered the night Amara left.

And the laughter in the compound.

And the wine he drank.

So I passed him.

With the juice carton I took from his fridge that day.

Empty.

I dropped it beside him.

And said.

Gas don finish.

The End.