Die several times, then you would know how much less the cat's life is.

Living in Nigeria is an art on, as there are several brush strokes involved and each stroke teaches a lesson.

 In this essay, I have considered the brush strokes of an average Nigerian and highlighted their daily struggles to illustrate the harsh realities of the country.

To live in Nigeria is akin to the breath you hold, without knowing, when suddenly, a darkness takes over your cabin in a train as it makes its way down through the tunnel's eyes. How you wait with your mind fixed on protecting your bags from the shadows that are faster than their owners, whose task it is to rob everyone and anything on the train. How you pray no harm is done to you before the light at the end comes into view. How you release that breath you held at the start and chuckle at the unbelievable fact that you had been scared though it is not your first time boarding a train. And finally, how you scream when upon stretching your body for more relief you find next to you, a pool of blood that belongs to the man who had shared the cabin with you, who was well alive the last you saw him in the light, with whom you had argued about Arsenal making it to the Premiere the coming year.

The life of a Nigerian is greater than that of a cat because to live in Nigeria is to live every day stabbed by hope. Yes, that fickle friend becomes a murderer here. 

Yet, to live in Nigeria is also to live with it. Hope. 

A hope that you would catch the BRT bus in time to miss the traffic and get to work on time because you also wish to escape the predatory eyes of the policemen on the road who might ask you to alight were you not on that particular bus, delay you from going to work because your haircut looks suspicion or that the fact that you are carrying a laptop with you only translates that you are a cybercriminal and should be detained until a fine is paid.

A hope that the Chad beggars with long silk hairs who sit on every pavement will not run, grabbing onto your neatly ironed outfit, for fear of your religious conscience judging you of not being generous enough because though you tell yourself you do not have much to spare, you would have given that little and expect God to provide manna for lunch and your fare back home.

A hope that if you burn the night candles reading rather than give in to Professor Akpan's advances you could beat him at the game of school and graduate to the next level like the rest of your mates, because after all, all you need is 50% attendance, 30% in tests and 20% in your exams, and so far you can beat your chest assured of at least 70% which you hope to make up for with the exams, only if by some mystery your script is not declared 'missing'.

A hope that the money you have at the bank will be sufficient for the month's upkeep and that the things you bought in the previous month will retain their prices when next you go grocery shopping.

A hope that the loud bang you heard while the TV was on was only an exhaust pop of a car and not the sound of a gunshot and that when morning comes tomorrow, your neighbours would not ask "Have you heard?", and then proceed to tell you of the cult crash that occurred last night taking the life of Mr. Theophilus, the scholar turned minibus driver who was doing his last round for the day but got caught in the clash.

A hope that someday you will be called up by one of the hundred offices where you have interviewed for a job fitting of your educational qualifications and finally leave the sales representative job you had at a restaurant to boast of a better salary.

Finally, to live in Nigeria is to hold your breath, waiting for brief flashes of light to see the distance between you and the shadows that are faster than their owners. If you would make it to the light before them, or if they would get to you before the light.