The Mask —Oyeleye Mahmoodah Lagos is the land of everything that breathes. There is this unsaid law here that poison and food sell alike. It is the place for voodooist , wo rkaholics, drunkards , captors , robbers and every other kind of human being you can name. It’s no t a nation, housing people of different nationalities and ethnicity. Nor is it Vatican City , with traditionalists, Muslims, Christians, Buddhist, Jews, Hindus, atheist, monotheists scattered all over. Do not get surprised if you see a Mongolian or Caucasian on your street, for this is one of what jazzes in our space. I was born and bred in Lagos, but the fact therein is that I am of mixed nationality. I am not j ust Dora Sean, that six t een years old British-Nigerian girl next door. I am an elder sister to a fraternal set of twins and my school’s social prefect. I am not in the least bit brilliant, but from my nails start the ad...