My eyes went red on Thursday.

As I drove up the Ojuelegba Road traffic in my air-conditioned "tokunbo/belgium" car, windows all the way up, musing, strains of "Olorun mi mo wa dupe" filtered in from blaring recordshop speakers.
To my right, a tall man, about 6' 3" with the build of the lead African in La Amistad and Blood Diamond danced by the shop rows to the music. He was obviously an Ibo shop attendant, dressed in well/worn short sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers which had had the hem lowered twice to cover his ankles, but still wasn't doing its job. I could see the lines where the thread had been released. He danced on to the yoruba song, oblivious to the stares of onlookers.

Olorun mi mo wa dupe
Iwo l'oba to se t'ana
Iwo l'oba to se t'eni
O da mi l'oju o se t'ola
Olorun mi mo wa dupe

My God, I've come to give thanks
You did yesterday's
You did today's
I'm confident you'll do tomorrow's
My God, I've come to give thanks

To my left, just by my window, another man, also in sun licked clothing passed, wearing rubber boat like shoes. He carried a torn polythene bag, just going his way. His face told his story. Defeated by life. I sat and watched them both in turns, at how the dice has rolled for us all, by reason of birth, of simple choices made as youths, of parents with money or without, with common sense or the lack of it.

The song continued, Olorun mi, mo wa dupe.

I gritted my teeth, changed gears. Men don't cry.