I was already dressed for work, standing at the junction like a responsible adult with plans and dignity. My bag sat properly on my shoulder. My shoes were clean and shiny. My hair obeyed gravity. Life was actually just rolling along normally.
Then the eggs arrived.
A huge truck rolled past, stacked impossibly high with crates of eggs, wobbling as if it had plans for me. I watched it turn into the next street; I stared at it, half-interested and half-mindful of my bus.
That was exactly when it happened.
Boom!
The truck hit a massive stone, I heard sounds like—crack, crack, crack—and suddenly something warm landed on my head.
Then my shoulder.
Then my chest.
Then my whole dress.
Finally, my shoes.
"Aaaaahhhhhh, eggs!..." I screamed and just stood there as the egg slid down my hair, mouth open, arms open, frozen, while egg after egg betrayed gravity and chose me.
"Omor!" Someone shouted and dodged away from the egg cracks
"Jesus!" another passerby exclaimed, her hands on her head as if she had walked into the wrong scene of her own life.
I raised my hands and looked down. My dress was highly eggly decorated. My hair was moisturized with protein. My handbag...my handbag was oozing.
"Sorry, my dear! So sorry!" a market woman exclaimed, rushing towards me as if an emergency had borrowed her legs.
"This one is bad luck," another passerby shook her head and stood there, completely forgetting where she was going, staring at me like someone whose mind has been switched off without warning.
"Bad luck!? I smell like breakfast!" I escalated in anger.
Before I could even process my new Identity as an omelette, the first woman disappeared and returned with a bucket.
"Stand still!" She said like she had just been promoted to emergency duty.
"Wai...t—" I had barely completed my word when she poured the water.
All of it.
Cold. Strong. Determined.
"Mama, why na!" I gasped; my eyes were red, almost about to cry.
"My daughter, to help you ni!" she said proudly as she came closer and started taking the cracked shells out of my hair and dress.
"Thank you ma" I said calmly, now I was eggy and wet.
I was still dripping, still stunned, when an elderly man appeared behind me, bucket already raised.
"Papa, no—please don't!" I pleaded.
But too late; Papa had already descended another bucket of water on my head.
"Hmmm!" I sighed, closed my eyes, and accepted my fate.
Now I stood there completely drenched, hair plastered to my skull, clothes clinging like magnets.
"Oh heavens! Please send down the rain," I muttered, earnestly hoping that there would be a sudden rainfall, but the sky betrayed me again.
People stood and stared at me as if they were watching an Indian film—where they crack eggs and colors on their faces and splash water on themselves in amusement—free of charge at Silverbird cinema. I was completely embarrassed.
"At least the eggs are gone" the first woman who poured water on me patted me consolingly.
"But mama, I can still perceive the smell all over me; it's not gone," I replied, still sniffing myself like a confused puppy in search of milk.
"Don't worry, my daughter, It will go small small, or should I get more water?" She said comfortingly.
"Ah, mama, again?! No! I'll manage it like that," I said firmly, trying to stay strong and convincing.
"Okay, my dear, no wahala. Oya come and go home," she adviced.
I didn't know whether to cry, laugh, say thank you, or even send a message to my boss. I just sat on a plastic chair by the roadside, dripping quietly and completely blank.
I checked the time. It was extremely late.
"Mama, thank you very much," I simply said, gave her a ten-seconds hug, picked up my bag, and headed to work.
The bus finally came.
I entered.
Silence fell immediately; the chatter died instantly. It was so quiet I could actually hear my wet shoes squelch. Every eyes turned to me as if they'd all seen a ghost or perhaps I had grown a second head.
People shifted.
A lady stood up immediately and moved three seats away.
Another covered her nose.
"Is it egg?" someone whispered.
"No, it smells like vomit," another replied.
I got down at my stop. As I walk down the road, people stared as if I carried a contagious curse.
At the office, the reaction was immediate.
"What happened to you?" Nkechi, my colleague, asked with concern.
"Did rain fall only on your street?" my annoying boss asked, covering his nose, surprised that he didn't shout at me.
"I must really look terrible," I muttered as I walked past him, speechlessly.
"Did someone pour pop on you? Why do you smell like that?" Lola, the drama office Queen, asked with her hands on her nose.
I said nothing. I walked past them like a ghost with unfinished business.
In the bathroom, I used detergent— the same one for clothes.
I scrubbed my hair like it was a rug.
I washed my dress.
I put everything back on, still wet, because what was left to lose?
When I returned, my colleagues and boss collapsed.
They laughed and apologized at the same time.
"Sorry... sorry...but—" Lola struggled to control her laughter amidst her words.
"At least the horrible smell has reduced," Nkechi said calmly, trying to keep a straight face.
Suddenly, a client walked in, stared strangely at me, and asked, "Is it raining inside?"
No one answered.
That day, I dried slowly at my desk. The smell followed me everywhere, loyal and unforgiving.
But water—and detergent— came through for me.
And dignity?
Dignity will return. Eventually.
Just not that day.
