The humid Lagos air clung to me like a second skin, thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and the distant murmur of a thousand lives. “Get lost!” a voice snarled, ripping me from my thoughts, and I jerked back, narrowly avoiding a speeding car. Lagos wasn't a place for daydreaming, a lesson I seemed to learn anew every day.

I hugged my worn backpack closer, navigating the familiar gauntlet of street thugs, their whistles and crude catcalls following me like persistent shadows. “Overload!” one yelled, another chiming in with “Heavy duty!” I ignored them, my sizeable butt apparently a constant source of unsolicited commentary. My usual routine. I quickened my pace, ducking into a narrow alleyway, hoping to escape the relentless noise and leering eyes.

Just as a sigh of relief began to escape my lips, a hand clamped onto my butt from behind, followed by a reek of stale cigarettes. Drunk. My heart hammered against my ribs. Instinct took over. A fierce kick to the groin, a grabbed bottle, a sickening smash against another skull. Then, I ran. I ran like my life depended on it, because it did. I didn't stop until the cacophony of the main road swallowed me whole, blending into the anonymity of the crowd. Safe. For now.