Taxicab

Taxicab

So I get in a taxi (at the Immigrations office in Ikoyi) bound for the office in Victoria Island. The taxi man proposed N1,500 as the charge. I countered with N1,000. Back and forth and he finally asked me to get in but hoped I would “add” something.

Driving a Taxi must be a lonely job to a large extent. Between clients, you are probably just driving around. Then people come into your live for brief periods of time, most will not leave any last impressions, but some will (including the guy that pulls a stickup on you and robs you of your day’s takings). So generally, taxi drivers are ready to talk. I am usually ready to listen – especially if you don’t expect more from me than the brief responses that indicates I don’t mind you going on or that I am at least listening.

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Taxi driver: “You see. It’s the fuel scarcity. If you check in the back of my cab, you will see several jerrycans there. The queues in the petrol stations are horrendous. In addition, they are hoarding the fuel.”

(I looked in the back and only saw a tiny 4-liter oil can so I said jokingly, “I don’t see any jerrycans here.”

“I just dropped them off because I needed to carry some heavy stuff for a client.”

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“My wife just delivered twins after many years of trying. My family had advised me to send her away. If not that we already had one child from several years before it would have been difficult. But I stuck with her. What’s the alternative? Get a new wife? Besides, you can’t trust most of these young ladies of nowadays. They are prostituting themselves all over the place.”

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“You see in fact I am fed up. This taxi is not even mine. Though I hope God will bless me this year and I will be able to buy my own. It’s on lease. I came all the way from Sango this morning to pick it up. See (holding up a ticket), this is a railway ticket in my hand. Sometimes, when I drop a client, by the time I drive round and get another one, my fuel is almost gone. If you don’t want to suffer, make sure you are out of this area before 4:30PM.

The petrol stations have fuel. They are just hoarding it. In some stations, they took delivery of 3 huge tanker-load of fuel about two to three weeks ago. We saw them. They locked it up claiming that the federal government wants to hike up the price. What’s their concern with that? This is fuel they took delivery of several weeks ago at the current price!”

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“When you are driving, be careful of these Maruwa (commercial tricycles), they can get one in trouble. They behave like chickens on the road.

If you are still in this neighborhood by 4:00PM,  you will know that Jesus is not a Nigerian (referring to the traffic-jam). My body is aching all over. See how dirty I am all over from the oil. But I give thanks to God all the same.

Yesterday when I leased this car. I was fortunate enough to repent quickly (“Olorun lo je kin tete ronu pi wada”). I just parked it. For over an hour and a half, not even one client!

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“When they reopen this station (we were passing by the NNPC station under renovation) , it will be very fine. I suspect someone else must have bought it over. I heard they have taken it back from the previous owner. That they owe a lot of money (“won je iya-laya gbese”). But I am sure they have sold it to one of the cabal.”

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“Beans is expensive in my area (I suspect the reference is to the Yoruba association of beans with twins). It’s N200 per Derica (measuring can). I was fortunate last week. While waiting to pick up clients, I went with a friend and found these Hausa traders. They are more reasonable. We got the beans at N160 per Derica.”

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The traffic in V/I was already bad. At the Sanusi Fafunwa junction, I asked him to pull over. I said I would walk through Sanusi Fafunwa to Karimu Kotun street. He asked if that wasn’t too long a walk but was quite grateful when I insisted. I brought out everything in my pocket (N1,205). Handed over N1,200 for which he was even more grateful.

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He needed to find water to top up his radiator. We parted ways at that point.

Home

Home (A.K.A. Lonely)

He ran away.
He ran away to China
Far away
Far away across the seven seas

His face was dark
Dark against the moving crowd
His head was high
High above the sea of pensive looks

His ways were odd
Odd from those around his darkish form
But he liked the rice
Eat with sticks; eat with hands
With hands?
Lonely for home 🙁

He went to the sea
Right beside the sea ship heading home
So he paid his way
Made his way again via the seven seas

Was he lost at sea?
Long days into stormy nights
But one day he heard the noise
He felt the heat
Home at last! He thought

But where is home?

Dead-man’s Pass

Dead-man’s Pass

Up in the hills
Where the wind whistles through the trees
There is a tiny pass
Where men have given all they had
To control that which was there before their time

Their ghosts still haunt the rocks and ravens below
Stay still for a moment
See out of the corners of your eyes their fleeting form
Feel their breathes upon your shoulder
Looking for what – it’s difficult to tell

Both slaves and free alike
Rich and poor the same
All perish alike – food for the worms
No forge has yet minted the coin to stay death’s withered hand
For when upon the shoulder it rests
Not even the cords that bind can save a soul

Up in the hills
The patched earth kills the very grass that holds the soil in place
The vultures’ bones are just as white as the bones of the men who fought and bickered and died
I stood still and let the winds carry away my thoughts
Replacing them with the whispers of men long dead
Their desires and aches
Their loves and hates
At Dead-man’s Pass

Folktales and Fables

I think I drew the picture below as a sample many many years ago when I was supposed to illustrate a planned new edition of the book “Folktales and fables” by Currey and Itayemi (not me . That’s Mrs. P. A. Ogundipe nee Itayemi. Most people would know her from the “Practical English” secondary school books and the “Brighter Grammar” primary school books series.)

folktales

On the edge

On the edge

Why do I teeter on the edge of fatness
It is the food I eat
Threatening to build a band around my waist
Can I keep the cholesterol at bay
When the sugar, the Suya and the Cola conspire to dissolve my resolve
Lo and behold
I have tried to bend my mouth to my will
But success is as fleeting
As the Coldstone ice*
The niece suggest I tried

Who will save me from my folly
The second musketeer says to try the beer for it is the drink of the gods
But confusion galore abounds
For isn’t it the belly of beer
That prompted the guard at the door
To inquire who the pregnant party was
When a friend and his love
Burst upon the shores of liberty
The land of the brave
Who trust in nothing but God?

The third musketeer of smaller girth
Abhors the beer
Instead supping on stronger fare
Is it 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 percent
Nothing less will do
But the liver has a finite life
And if it dies before I do
It’s as certain as rain and taxes
That I would follow shortly

So shunning the advice of friends and foes
Setting my shoulder to the till
Every breaking dawn
10 minutes running like the hounds of hell were fast on my heels
Drop and give 50 I imagine the drill serge shouting
6KG raised 60 times per hand like the labours of Hercules were fostered on me
It barely keeps the bands at bay
But I shall not be deterred from my singleness of purpose
Even though I teeter on the edge of fatness!

 

* Suya – peppered roasted beef
* Coldstone ice – icecream from a shop called Coldstone

Six

Six

I wish I would die.

Five years ago the thought wouldn’t have crossed my mind. Not even four, or three, or two. Not even one year ago. But now I can’t wait to be out of my misery.

How is it possible that a year ago I was living across the square at the top of the most luxurious hotel in town. Now I can still see the light from the window of the room I once occupied. I can detect movement inside if I try hard enough. I hunker down in the cold corner of the square for the night. Hoping the security detail from the hotel won’t come to harass me and all those other unfortunates I used to mindlessly toss a coin or two whenever I strolled by with not a single care in the world except for what color of tie I should wear to the get-together to which I had been invited.

I shiver uncontrollably. The weather forecast had been bleak. Unseasonable cold expected for the next couple of weeks. I had seen it looking through the front glass window at an electronic shop downtown. Before the shop’s security detail came out to ask me politely to move along.

I wish I would die.

I have tried a couple of times. Once I almost succeeded. I don’t understand why the state is concerned enough to save me from an attempted suicide but not concerned enough about where I would get my next meal or a place to sleep for the night. I saw the white light. I moved towards it as the blood drained from the gash in my arms I had made with the broken bottle of the cheap hooch I had bought from some shady individual at the neighborhood park. But it was the bright hospital light overhead as some intern closed the wounds in my arms that brought me back to the reality of my sorry existence. A trip to the hospital’s psychiatric section where the doctor was more than eager to declare me competent once it was realized I had no health insurance saw me outside the hospital as soon as I could walk on my own. They should have let me die.

I wish I would die.

The wind lifted the corners of my ragged overcoat. Crept up and grabbed hold of what was left of my withered form. I shivered again. If I was a believer I would have thought the devil was a one inch sore on my left shoulder: it itched like a “mutha-fu***r”.  I only believed in myself. I could do anything I wanted. I could have anything I wanted. I believed in myself.  Until I lost everything. The local RedCross rep gave me a cream for it. Maybe I am not using it properly. All the while she was explaining how to apply it, I was busy looking at her smooth light skin, her lovely face and beautiful teeth. She reminded me of someone else. A girl I had met by chance in a bank. She won’t be coming again for another month. In my previous life, we probably wouldn’t have met, but if we had, I would have had her hanging on my every word while treating her to all the best things the town had to offer. But that was another life in the distant past. I ignored the pity or compassion I saw in her eyes. She kept me company in my head while I built castles in my dreams. That kept the cold at bay for several nights. But after a week or so her face faded into the mist of vague shapes that drifted across my mind every time I close my eyes. I tried to will her back. But I failed.

I wish I would die.

I hear the sound of the refuse truck in the far distance. I opened my eyes. Just enough time to beat it to the back of the hotel where the leftovers of the day would be waiting for disposal. But I couldn’t feel the hunger. I couldn’t even feel my stomach. I didn’t move. The truck trundled past. How much time had passed? Maybe 10 or 15 minutes.

I had gambled everything away. Everything. Everything. I didn’t even own the cloth on my back. They are castoffs. My only possession is my briefs,  and I couldn’t get anyone to pay me 5 cents even if I wanted to sell it.

I looked down at my feet. I can see why they felt so cold. New holes in the old over-sized shoes. The only protection they offered was for the soles of my feet – I might as well have been wearing a pair of slippers.

Time to take a walk round the square. Pretend not to be homeless. Just another shopper looking in closed shop windows. But the only thing taking up space in my pocket is a lottery ticket. Well. It was that or a pack of smokes. It wasn’t much of a choice.

The dapper chap coming the opposite way noticeably sidestepped as we came abreast of each other: he could have been me 10 months ago. I ceased to wince a long time ago. The shame and embarrassment long disappeared into a dark abyss from which I could no longer call them forth.

I wish I would die.

There is very little human traffic at this time of the night. Though it wasn’t that late really. I was king of all I surveyed – as long as I looked but not touched. The journey felt short tonight. I am almost doubling back now, but there is one more detour to make. The small corner shop which wasn’t necessarily on the corner. The mom and pop shop that sold all the little things one could want in a hurry: a pack of cigarettes, a pack of gum, bars of chocolate, newspapers and magazine: you get the idea. It was closed and dim inside the shop but there was always more than enough light reflected from the street to see the winning numbers  displayed on the inner-side of the glass front doors. Tonight those numbers looked vaguely familiar. Could it be? I must have stood there for several minutes. I fingered the stiff piece of paper in my pocket but didn’t bring it out. I tried to remember where the numbers were printed on the paper. I ran my fingers over it as if it was a piece of some braille document. In my mind I tried to remember the numbers. The wind howled down the side street while I stood still like a mannequin. All of a sudden I was hungry, tired, sad and happy at the same time. I felt faint. I was almost sure of it. Those numbers starring back at me were the same ones I had played early that morning. I was back! I could already see myself in that room at the top of the hotel in the square. A couple of pretty young things at my beck and call. I would ask for the manager to come up for a chat – just because I could. I don’t like caviar but would order it anyway. Along with the biggest, oldest bottle of Champagne from their underground cellar: a place I had been privileged enough to visit when I was still an honored guest. Suits from the most exclusive tailors in town. I was really back! With that all-or-nothing ticket in my pocket, by this time tomorrow, I could do no wrong! I looked over my shoulders up and down the street before bringing it out – I couldn’t afford to be mugged at this critical point – but there was not a single soul within shouting distance. I straightened out the little piece of paper and went through the numbers one by one. My heart beating wildly as each one matched the one on the glass window in front of me. Except the last digit! It couldn’t be! I was sure I had played a nine, but there on my ticket was a six. I turned it over and it became a nine, but holding the ticket the right-way up, it was a six. i must have checked it at least 20 times, but the six on my ticket and the nine in the window refused to change. The vista of fine food and wine and girls disappeared just as rapidly as I had constructed them in my mind. Replaced by the dank dark lonely street with the wind carrying the little scraps of paper past doorways and behind rubbish bins.

I wish I would die.

29/12/2013 (15:30pm – 18:20pm)

How big is your faith?

How big is your faith?

If as Jesus said (Luke 17:6 paraphrased, Matthew 17:20), you only need to have faith as small as a mustard seed to command mountains to move (should apply to healing as well), then there is real trouble!
Most pastors/churches just want you to worship in their churches or attend some event they are holding and “hope” you will get “your” healing. That’s leaving it completely to chance. (And if a couple of people out of several thousands do get healed, going by the way it is celebrated, it would have required an all-week party in Jesus’ time to celebrate the several people that got healed during similar gatherings. Unfortunately, even the few Pastors who seem to actively cause people to receive their healing have so much controversy surrounding them, it’s probably wise to keep a reasonable distance. There were no controversies surrounding the healing Jesus and the apostles performed – they were “self-evident”.)

Whereas in fact, during the time of Jesus and the Apostles, it was an “active ministry” – Jesus (and the Apostles) went out to actively heal people or people who approached them got healed.

So does it mean just as the rest of us, our pastors’ faith are not even as big as a small mustard seed?

Across the Bridge

Across the Bridge

A friend going out of town a couple of days ago had asked me to go get his car from his office (where he had parked it and taken a taxi to the airport). It wasn’t quite convenient for me to do so due to the location of the office. Anyway, I had decided I was going to go pick up the vehicle yesterday night but closed from work quite late (about 10PM). So I made up my mind I was going to go get the car this morning. I had more or less decided I would take a cab to his office though I must confess there was the beginnings of an idea that I might just walk there instead.

So this morning I got up and  hadn’t quite made up my mind which mode of transportation to take to his office (also I had to keep in mind that I had an appointment in a couple of hours). But while Whatsapping as I walked to the main road, I told a “friend” that I had issues with my car and that I was walking on the road and the friend commented that it was good and that I needed the walk since I was lazy (there is a background story to trhat so don’t take it out of context :-). At that moment, I made up my mind to walk to his office. So I walked all the way from a street off Bishop Oluwole in Victoria Island, across the bridge into Ikoyi to the old NNPC Building on Alfred Riwane Road. It took 50 minutes and I usually walk briskly. I guess I could knock off about 5minutes if I hadn’t stop to take pictures and admire the scenery.

I was basically walking on a workday in the opposite direction to the heavy traffic flowing into Victoria Island. I was in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans and I could see that some of the people in the cars looked at me curiously (I suspect some of it had to do with my taking pictures with my phone). There was also the fact that I was walking along the side of the bridge and at some point on the bridge itself since there was really no pedestrian walkway (does that count as jaywalking? I guess so. So is it a misdemeanor or something more serious?).

It also served as my exercise for the day.

Below are some random pictures I took along the way. Makes me wonder during the olden days when people walked from the “interior” of the country to Lagos (the Ocean). Some of the distances were 200Km to 500Km or even more. They were never really in a hurry though. Stopping at villages along the way and were usually received with respect that was typically awarded to strangers or road travelers in those days. They can usually be assured of meals and shelter. So if I covered say a kilometer or two in an hour, I can only estimate how long those trips took. That was the happy scenarios, but I am sure some people didn’t make the journey so willingly because they were freemen (and women and children) who had become slaves by virtue of their villages having been pillaged by stronger neighboring villages and they were on their way to be shipped across the oceans to foreign lands (a lot of them didn’t even survive the inhuman conditions of the journey itself and they ended up as food for the fishes).

Time changes everything.

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