My wife's phone has more contacts than the Ibadan phone directory

I was sitting on my veranda yesterday, enjoying the harmattan breeze, when my wife brought out her phone to call our lastborn. She scrolled for a full three minutes before finding his name. Three minutes. I asked her, 'Omo, how many people you carry for that phone?' She just waved her hand and said, 'Ah, Kunle, you know I know everybody.'

Now, I am a retired civil servant. In my time, we had a small black book with maybe 30 names. If you lost it, you simply went to the person's house or office. Today, my wife has 847 contacts. 847. She has the woman who sells plantain at the junction, the man who fixed her generator in 2019, three different pastors from three different churches we visited once, and a woman she met on a bus to Lagos in 2015 and never saw again. When I asked why she keeps them, she said, 'You never know, what if I need plantain at midnight?'

I have observed over the years that Nigerian women collect phone numbers like we used to collect stamps. It is a form of insurance against life. If anything happens, she will call somebody. Me, I have 23 contacts. My children, my wife, my brother, the pharmacy, and the man who sharpens my cutlass. That is all a man needs. But try telling that to a woman who believes every stranger is a potential connection. The Yoruba say, 'A person you meet today may be the one who carries you tomorrow.' My wife has taken that proverb and turned it into a contact list.