Water Politics
By 6:13 a.m., the compound had already formed a senate hearing.
“Ask your children where my bucket is!”
“Which children?!”
“You people think because your husband is in London, the rest of us are stupid?”
“Ahn-ahn, leave my husband out of your frustration!”
Somebody hissed with enough force to rearrange the atmosphere.
A baby began crying downstairs.
And standing in front of an empty bathroom bucket, Adesewa Adebayo wondered briefly if this was how civilizations collapsed.
The tap coughed once.
Then nothing.
She stared at it.
The tap stared back.
Wonderful.
Outside her window, voices bounced through the compound like badly organized campaign promises. The landlord’s wife had joined now. That meant things were entering advanced stages.
Adesewa tied her scarf tighter and stepped into the corridor.
The morning air smelled like detergent, wet concrete, fried akara from the junction, and collective irritation.
In the middle of the compound stood three women, two buckets, one crying child, and enough tension to power a small local government.
“Good morning,” Adesewa said carefully.
Nobody answered.
Mama Sade pointed dramatically at the empty tap. “Since yesterday! Since yesterday this thing has not worked!”
“And you’re just saying it now?” another tenant snapped.
“Am I the plumber?!”
“You people wait until suffering matures before reacting.”
Adesewa nearly smiled.
That sentence alone deserved a seat in the National Assembly.
The landlord finally appeared upstairs wearing a singlet and the expression of a man hoping invisibility might suddenly become available to civilians.
“My people,” he began.
That phrase alone irritated her.
Politicians and landlords always said my people right before disappointing everyone.
“There is no need for all this shouting.”
“Then bring water!” somebody yelled immediately.
A chorus of agreement exploded across the compound.
The landlord raised both hands. “The pumping machine only needs small repair.”
“How small?”
Silence.
Interesting.
Adesewa leaned against the railing, studying him the way some people studied traffic before crossing Ojuelegba.
He was sweating too much for a man discussing a “small repair.”
Also avoiding eye contact.
Also overexplaining.
Classic signs of budget disappearance.
“You collected environmental contribution two months ago,” Mama Sade continued. “What did you use it for?”
The landlord laughed nervously. “Madam, let us not politicize everything.”
Adesewa snorted before she could stop herself.
Several heads turned toward her.
Wonderful again.
“What is funny?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
But unfortunately, she had inherited her father’s inability to leave foolishness alone.
“With respect, sir,” she added, “if everybody contributed money for maintenance and there’s still no water, then it already became political.”
Silence landed softly across the compound.
Even the crying child paused to reconsider events.
The landlord blinked at her.
Mama Sade’s face lit up like she had just discovered a new favorite television program.
“Yes!” she shouted. “Exactly! That is what I’ve been saying!”
“No,” another tenant argued immediately. “That is not what you were saying. You were accusing children of bucket theft.”
“Because buckets have vanished!”
“Can everybody stop shouting?” the landlord barked suddenly.
Wrong move.
The compound exploded.
Everybody began talking at once.
One woman switched from English to Yoruba out of emotional necessity.
Another brought up generator contributions from last year.
Someone mentioned witchcraft for absolutely no reason.
Adesewa stepped back slowly.
Nigerians could turn any inconvenience into a constitutional crisis within eight minutes. It was honestly a gift.
Her phone buzzed.
She checked the screen and closed her eyes.
CLIENT: WHERE ARE YOU???
Right.
Reality.
Today’s fitting.
The navy blue asoebi disaster currently hanging unfinished in her shop.
The bride who spoke exclusively in voice notes and panic.
And Kemi, her apprentice, who had somehow sewn one sleeve tighter than the other.
Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
Adesewa hurried back inside her room.
Her standing fan rotated lazily beside the bed like it, too, had given up on the country.
The power had gone sometime around 3 a.m. judging from the heat trapped inside the room. Her generator fuel was almost finished, and she refused to start another “whose generator is louder” competition with the compound this early.
She dressed quickly: black trousers, a white tank top, and an oversized button-up shirt.
Functional.
Sharp.
Easy to survive Lagos in.
Her sewing notebook sat open on the table beside yesterday’s newspaper. Fabric sketches filled most pages, but political observations crowded the margins between measurements.
Fuel scarcity.
Youth unemployment.
Local council sanitation failure.
Women in leadership.
Random thoughts collected like receipts.
Sometimes she wondered if she cared too much.
Other times, she wondered if everybody else cared too little.
Outside, the compound argument continued with remarkable stamina.
“Ask him where our money went!”
“You people insult too much!”
“Then stop behaving suspiciously!”
Adesewa picked up her bag.
Her eyes drifted briefly toward the newspaper headline on the table.
MINISTER PROMISES INFRASTRUCTURE IMPROVEMENTS
She laughed once under her breath.
Nigeria loved promises the way rich aunties loved motivational WhatsApp statuses.
Always forwarding. Never applying.
By the time she reached the gate downstairs, Mama Sade caught her arm dramatically.
“Adesewa, talk to him.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re educated.”
“That’s exactly why I’m escaping.”
Mama Sade cackled.
“You would make good leader, you know.”
Amaka adjusted the strap on her bag. “God forbid stress.”
But the words followed her anyway as she stepped into the street.
The morning rush had already begun.
Danfo conductors shouted destinations like battle cries.
A woman balanced bread on her head while arguing on her phone.
Schoolchildren dragged oversized backpacks through puddles left behind by last night’s rain.
And somewhere nearby, a generator coughed awake like an angry ancestor.
Lagos.
Loud.Restless.Always surviving.
Adesewa crossed the road carefully, weaving through okadas and irritation.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message from the bride.
IF THIS DRESS FAILS ME EHNNN
She sighed toward heaven.
Meanwhile, above the market noise and traffic horns, a campaign poster flapped loosely against an electric pole.
A smiling politician stared confidently into the distance beneath the words:
A NEW NIGERIA IS POSSIBLE.
Adesewa stopped briefly.
Then laughed so hard a nearby hawker looked concerned.
