It was on one of those nights that I always cut my 'buba' according to my available yards of 'ankara'. I was sauntering, a toothpick in my mouth like someone who just had two spoons of food-co fried rice with a full chicken, relishing it like someone who just had a double sausaged shawarma with a pineaple-flavoured famfresh yogurt. In reality I just had a humble meal at Iya ijebu's Buka in Basorun . I was sauntering--living the dream and dreaming the life-- when I encountered this woman. Stranded and crying. An aftermath of petrol-queue-induced traffic gridlock at Basorun that increased the journey between Idi-ape junction and Orita basorun to a 2-hour stint. The lady's car broke down, petrol thirsty but she seemed more broken than the car. Her kids loitering in front of a closed shop, tears coursing down her disturbed face. She called on me for assistance. I heeded her call as the supposed Savior she was talking to on phone wasn't forthcoming...