AJ
Deported from London, beaten in a cell, broke on a veranda bench. He has a plan, a London accent and a debt to the gate police.
The ladies' man in the box room
The smallest room, the emptiest pocket and the busiest door on June 12 Street. Nobody can explain it, least of all Benny.
Money talks, my brother. But it never listens. I listen.Tiny
Babatunde Olaoye came to Lagos from Ilesa with a bag, a smile and no plan. He is the tallest man on June 12 Street and lives in its smallest room, so the street calls him Tiny. The room is the box room of Iloro House, the old storeroom by the back door, which the landlord rents out and calls "Room 9" so he can charge for it. Stand in the middle and you can touch both walls.
He has no job anyone can name: a little DJing at naming ceremonies when somebody lends him a speaker, modelling "for a brand that is coming", photographs for other people's pages. He owes the landlord, he owes Benny, he owes Chuks for food, and he borrows AJ's iron. He has one good shirt, washed every night and worn every day, and one bottle of cologne, used a drop at a time.
And yet somebody knocks on the box room door every day. They bring food, take him to church, buy him phone credit and sit with him on the veranda. Tara refuses to lie for him. Mr. Akin keeps count. Danger says his lines are cheap verses. Benny, who can sell anything to anyone, has studied him for a year and still cannot work out what he is selling. Tiny's own explanation is simple: he listens.
Tiny is not in the game yet. His box room is behind Iloro House, by the back door.
Babatunde Olaoye, the tallest man on June 12 Street, lives in its smallest room, so the street calls him Tiny. He came from Ilesa with a smile and no plan. He owes everybody in Iloro House, and still has a visitor every day. Then the money runs out, and somebody at Prizm starts asking what he hears.
Deported from London, beaten in a cell, broke on a veranda bench. He has a plan, a London accent and a debt to the gate police.
The most dangerous man on June 12 Street and the one it loves most: a stare that stops a fight, a laugh you can hear from the gate, and a notebook of verses.
Small, quick and never short of a word. If it is moving this week, Benny has it, and it is written in a notebook with a rubber band around it.
The hairdresser at Palmline, outside the main gate, and AJ's neighbor in Room 7. Everybody talks in her chair. She repeats almost none of it.
Economics graduate, second class upper, "in opportunities". He borrows ₦500 and pays back ₦50, exactly once.
No room, no rent, no surname, no home town. A Rasta preacher with locks to his back who sings to the sea and sleeps wherever a door is open.