Warri to Lagos, passing chaos alongside the road. Through the marks of civilization, wooden frames empty and others filled with various dallies of cheap Chinese junk, together sheltered with the tatters of canvas stretched overhead. They were empty, so empty it's worth mentioning again: They were empty, derelict, dry like a Mojave ghost-town with their rotting planks of siding. Further, deeper into society; structure-free, a ranting behavior. Markets line the uneven curbs, congregating near potholes a foot and a half deep. Traffic slows to an imbalanced creep. One tire falls in, a jolt, a sway; the whole cabin lilting, rocking back and forth as the other tires follow. The location of the squatters and stalls are strategic. Joseph Mojume supplied the cultural facts. "They use to be indoors, all the goods of the merchants within shops.
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