Its the middle of the night; the wind stirs the leaves and drives sand particles against my window. Suddenly, rain drops patter my roof. The tap-tap-tap beats reminding me of JSS3 and JP Clarke. JSS 3, where I really first fell in love. But that's another story for another day. Clouds blot out the stars as rain falls. The sky cries until it can cry no more and after the rain, the early morning sun smiles. Slowly I get up from bed and sniff the air. It is a smell like no other.; an aroma I have since birth learned to love, though not always welcome. The smell of the first rains, the smell of birth. Its the end of the dry dusty harmattan and winter. Heralds of spring. A new beginning. Rebirth and life. Petrichor

When I was first started out to start this piece, I was confused. My heart was full of inspiration yet my head was devoid of ideas. And just like the prodigal son of old tales, I remembered my roots; alomo bitter and opa eyin, twin muses, if there ever was. I went into meditation with liquid inspiration in a really dark part of town (don't ask me where. Its my private ashram). Slowly, I could hear the leaves stirring. I could smell it. See the cobwebs clearing from my vision. From my trance, I got up and left my ashram. I left and headed for tipper garage. I stopped at the okada park there and just observed life through the lens of sages past; with the clear, unclouded eyes of  ancestors at elemu joints and in the spirits, locally-brewed version. Like an old testament prophet receiving a vision, it slowly dawned on me that I was not there by my own choosing. Providence had led me here. Take 1, National distraction album, Side 1, Tanke Tipper Garage. From relative calm and camaradie, wily old Nick reared his head and a fight nearly broke out. Someone was revving his bike and raising hell. An ibadan man with full NAFDAC number (I counted it sef) spoke to him and told him to stop. He complied and was talking to a friend about how Jincheng makes more noise than Bajaj. Suddenly, Mr. Ibadan man picked offence at some other things the Agatu guy said and proceeded to lock him by his shirt and that even his father (Mr. Agatu's dad) dare not talk to him in that way. Like a possessed priest, he uttered incantations and pronounced that his parents were going to cry over him. Before we knew what was happening, they were close to blows. A young guy with an older man with a family and kids at home. They were eventually separated but still continued hurtling abuses and curses on each other. Mr. Ibadan suddenly ran to his machine and brought something out. My eyes at this point were a bit hazy and I couldn't see clearly what it was but reliable witnesses later told me he wanted to add african power to balance out the equation. Nothing eventually came of it and the fight was prevented.

Its amazing how things can slowly snowball. One moment, things are calm, the next stormy. A quiet conversation between friends suddenly turns into a shouting match and blows fly. Someone sees a bottle nearby and decides to use it. Blood follows, a life is lost; cut down in the prime of life by a life companion.

While we can't expect everybody we meet to act in a rational manner, we can control how we react to issues. Hot temper has never gotten anyone anywhere, I hear my father speaking to me with the authority and wisdom of one who has seen this world and the next. Its the meek that inherit the earth. After the red mist; the stormy winds and rains, the eyes clear, all things appear afresh, so said the Spirits of the bottle to me. Reign your emotions. Petrichor. The sweet smell after the storm.