It is rumored that Las Gidi is the city of the gods, positioned not so far from the exact spot that once held the foundations of another fabled city, Babel, a city whose link to fame traces its history to the pages of the Bible. If you remember the story, you would recall that the residents of Babel sought to build a bridge to Heaven, but fell short. A testament to their failure was the vast number of languages that set in afterwards, the harbinger of confusion as their descendants were scattered all over the face of the earth.
What the historians failed to mention was that the exact coordinates of Babel were never known, but rumor had it that the builders complained of the tremendous heat. It almost felt as if the angels were ironing their heavenly garments, transferring the full brunt of the galactic juice that powered their steam irons to the mortals on earth. The tower had sought to create a hole in the bowels of heaven for man to ascend, in retaliation, the angels had dumped buckets of hot water on their heads. But that remains a myth, for all we know, the residents of Babel were scattered across the face of the earth, each speaking a different language, unified by their stubborn resolve to succeed wherever they went…
The young man stood in the middle of the road, clad in a pair of well worn dirty blue jeans and a threadbare t-shirt that had the words "BABEL" emblazoned on it. The sun was relentless, the heat overbearing and intense, the sweat trickled down his face in steady rivulets, tracing a grime path down the side of his oily skin. He yanked the formerly white colored face towel out of his back pocket, and wiped his face furiously. He took a glance at the crumpled cloth, his face grimacing at the dirt stains etched all over the previously pristine white cloth. He sighed deeply and stuffed it back down the throat of his pocket, pulling up his trousers slightly as he did so. There was no reprieve in sight from the heat, so the only viable alternative was to soldier on and bear it, everyone else was in the same boat. He continued his duty of controlling traffic, his mind focused on the wad of notes he would receive from the compassionate motorists.
People milled about with aimless purpose, footsteps crisscrossing the landscape of the dusty terrain, phones glued to ears like extra appendages, the human traffic akin to the sluggish movement of a centipede. The roads weren't any better, the tranquility of the day had long been murdered by the incessant sounds of blaring horns, frustrated drivers yelling and gesticulating angrily at each other in different languages as they sought to maneuver their vehicles out of tight spots, whilst the poorly maintained cars groaned with the effort of twisting and turning their metallic frames at angles they weren't designed for.
The potholes belched contentedly as cars sank into them, the jarring impact on the car unabsorbed by the shocks and struts that had long since lasted beyond their expiration date. The jolts were transferred to the passengers cramped up in the back seat of the beat-up commercial vehicle, their complaints muffled by the loud arrhythmic horns blaring in the sun-baked air. The driver wiped his face with a dirty rag that substituted as a handkerchief, his face not betraying any emotion or cognizance of his passengers’ complaint. The taxi driver glanced at his once clean handkerchief which now bore no resemblance to its original color and muttered curses under his breath, "Lagos na wa".
Up in the skies, the angels kept on ironing their garments, oblivious to the mortals below. Babel or Las Gidi, it made no difference, the cycle rolled on…