Two aspirants on the same day, one in Ikeja, one in Surulere. He wanted me to split the crowd so that cameras at both would show a full ground. Shirts would be switched in the bus. Same chanting, different names. He said, Nobody checks. People only look at the front row. I said I'd think about it. He wrote down my number anyway.

He asked for the crowd to scream louder when the rival's name was mentioned. Not boo. Scream. My boss turned to me and whispered that this is how you know the ground is real: the other side is paying to look afraid. Back on the bus, I counted: three hundred and sixty people, none of whom could name the aspirant. Including me.