On the Road

I left school for Port Harcourt last week and returned yesterday. I had to travel on the same road as I did last time (You may have read my post 'Robbed'. The Umuahia-Okigwe road is the only one connecting Port Harcourt and Enugu). I wasn't afraid to pass the road again...I wasn't!...seriously... I wasn't afraid. I was...nervous?...worried?... Yeah! worried is the word. To forestall my arriving Enugu penniless, I hid my money - part of it, in my socks. Images of them cutting my leg from my ankle down just to get my money, swam to the surface of my mind. Was that silly? For the first time, the frequent Police stops did not annoy me. I smiled and nodded approvingly a couple of times. Here were Nigerian Police men being Police men! They were dressed smartly; stopping vehicles randomly; checking vehicle documents and occupants; wielding guns to protect us from robbers in case they showed up, ready to blow them into nothingness (Don't scoff!).

Everytime we slowed down to a crawl to get past the many potholes on the road, I peered warily into the dark forest from where I sat in the bus, perhaps I would spot them motioning each other wordlessly. I dragged my eyes away from my reading material often, craning my neck and staring far ahead, maybe I could alert the driver this time and maybe, just maybe we could turn around and speed away like the vehicles behind us did that day. Thankfully, nothing happened. Some conditions were the same as the last time. For starters I was using the same Bus Company as the last time (they are the best in Nigeria), I was sitting in the same seat like the last time and I had the same ticket number. Somewhere between Port Harcourt and Enugu, rain fell, this time it was light. I did not sleep like the last time, I battled it, putting aside my comfort to save other people's necks. Once in a while, I paused to admire the view. I have travelled so frequently along that road that I no longer stare in awe at the breathtaking hills on both sides of the road. I remembered my mp3 player, Sansa C240. It was taken from me then. That gadget was perfect (only Dera Igwe will disagree). I decided while on board the bus to move up the next level by acquring an iPod...Igwe watch out!

I finished The Icarus Girl by Helen Oyeyemi on my way. Yeah, I'm just reading The Icarus Girl. It doesn't matter if you read a book the day it is released or ten years later. The important thing is you strike it off your mental list of books you want to read. Hopefully before the year runs out, i'll strike off The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.

The second half of my journey- from Enugu to Nsukka was uneventful. The road was bad and had many potholes; the driver was speeding dangerously, causing our bodies to sway roughly from side to side. Deaf to our pleas to slow down, he cursed drivers who swerved to avoid him and sped on recklessly, braking only when we got to Police stops. Our seat did not have any cushion, so my buttocks began to ache early in the nearly two hours long journey. Nigerians don't nag about uncomfortable journeys many times over(except this jobless writer), they nag about more important stuff like - where our oil money is going or where our country is headed...those perplexing national issues. The unpleasant bus experience is a frequent occurence for those of us on the pedestrian level- and we are many. But don't listen to what you hear on Cable, there are many people here who have cars and don't have to go through this.

I like travelling. I remember one of my trips to the South. Throwing caution and everything my loving parents had ever taught me about dealing with strangers to the wind, I accepted groundnut from the lady seated beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother's eyes widen in shock(his seat was across from mine). I remember seeing him try to get my attention surreptitiously - tapping his booted foot, shaking his arm so his silver wristwatch would catch my eye. When he noticed I was ignoring him, he shook his head sadly and turned back to his PSP. I have to admit I began to worry about being bewitched after the pleasant taste of the groundnut had worn off.

I wasn't tempted to accept groundnuts from her because she was beautiful or persuasive, but because we hit if off immediately the journey began and I was really hungry. We were both up-to-date on international and local celeb gossip...sorry gist; we had both been robbed in the past month; we stood on the same side of most issues - embezzlement in Aso Rock, displeasure at why the only road to the South should be in such a terrible condition, it would delay us for four hours. My only regret is I did not collect her number.

Robbed

The most appropriate title for this post would be "An Eventful Bus Ride". It's funny that eleven days after I posted the piece "An Uneventful Bus Ride" I was robbed by armed men aboard a bus taking me back to school. I and thirteen other passengers were made to lie on the road, under the heavy rain for a little over ten minutes while we were dispossesed of our belongings by gun toting bandits. I have never been robbed before and I will never forget this experience. Lying with my face on the tarred road while one of the men searched my pockets roughly; murmuring prayers fervently along with the other passengers- a couple of whom were weeping, while the cold rain beat us; rushing back into the bus after the bandits retreated into the forests; hitting my head on the bus door in my blind hurry to get back into the bus so we could speed away from that scene. In that fleeting moment, nothing material mattered. All we were begging God for, was LIFE. We were begging for the chance to see our loved ones again, we were begging for the forgiveness of our many sins. Many minutes later after the shock of the whole experience diminished, we were wringing our wet clothes, laughing and talking about how scared we had been. Inevitably, we began to discuss the contents of our bags, wallets, the monetary value of our stolen phones. . . we were thanking God none of us were beaten or shot.

Dear Readers, I'm sorry I haven't posted anything for so long. It must have been disappointing or perhaps irritating to visit my blog and see nothing new. I'm really sorry. The robbers took all the traveling bags on the bus including mine. Contained in my own bag were all the notebooks I write in. Those were the most valuable things I lost. All my book ideas, the completed plot sketch of my novel "Lost Prose", the uncompleted short story series I was working on to post later on my blog. . . and so many other literary stuff I was working on. All of them were lost. I have bought a new notebook and I have started scribbling stuff. The yet to be titled short story series is coming on just fine, you'll read it later.

Another reason why I haven't posted any piece in such a long time is that I stayed back at home for five weeks while school was going on because I lost my dear Aunt and had to remain back for the funeral. I have missed lectures and i'm trying to catch up. I have an important exam soon so I might not be blogging actively, Please bear with me. I'll keep scribbling and i'll post as often as I can.

Thank you all very much.

Yours truly,
Osondu Nnamdi Awaraka

An Uneventful Bus Ride

        "Chris Chemist?" I asked the bus conductor who was hanging from the door of the bus passing in front of me. It was drizzling and I was standing at the bus stop getting wet. He banged on the side of the bus and it stopped a little distance away from where I stood.
        "You dey go Chris Chemist?" I asked again.
        "Enter."
I climbed into the bus. All the seats seemed to be occupied. Why did he let me in if all the seats were occupied I asked myself knowing the answer. I walked to the back of the bus, holding the seats as I passed to steady myself because the bus was already moving. The bus seats clearly designed to seat two passengers comfortably, now bore the weight of three. The bus driver apparently felt that letting two people sit comfortably would be wasteful. Comfort is not important in a bus ride, Nigerians have long learned to expect that. On the only seat unoccupied by three passengers, a fat woman sat. This was clearly where the conductor intended me to perch throughout the bus ride to Chris Chemist – wherever that was.
        "Please could you adjust?" I asked as politely as I could because I was getting annoyed. She made the motions of adjusting, but nothing changed, the space on the seat remained exactly the same. I sat, feeling the metal support of the chair pressing hard against my buttocks. The rain falling outside became heavier and everyone shut their windows. I was surprised that all the bus windows were in good working order despite the battered look of the bus. A man got up, held onto the iron grid behind the driver to support himself and began to hawk drugs on the moving bus. NAFDAC says this is illegal activity and should be reported. I saw no attempts to call the Police. The bus driver and his conductor were chatting in front of the bus as though they could not hear him. I listened as he spoke. He was using a lot of big words, maybe he hoped that by sounding learned his drugs would seem more authentic. I unconsciously began correcting his grammatical blunders in my head, while the fat woman next to me produced buns with a full egg in it from the depths of her bag and began eating noiselessly. The air in the bus steadily became comfortably warm despite the rain lashing at the shut windows. It was the heat generated from all the bodies in the bus, not from some warming feature the bus had or something, and despite subtle odd smells, the generated heat felt nice.
         The woman in front of me was seated in between a man looking out the window and a boy of about six. Clearly he was her son; he was asking rather rudely for some biscuit it seemed his mother had in her bag.
         “Mummy!” he whined. “Gimme that biscuit” There was no ‘Please’ in his sentence and no plea in the tone of his voice. It was a demand. She ignored him, but he kept hitting her on the shoulder.
         "MUMMY!" He hit her harder and I wondered why she did not restrain him and give him one or two knocks or slaps whichever would be effective in disciplining the young tyrant.
         "Junior." She said in a low voice. ‘That biscuit is for you and your brothers. Wait till we get home."
         "NO!" He said loudly. Everyone was watching to see how she would handle him. "Gimme, gimme." He tried to put his hand into her hand bag, but she pulled them out. He began to “cry”; she sighed, dipped her hand into her bag, pulled out the biscuit and gave him two pieces, wrapped the remainder and put it back into her bag. He stopped “crying” or should I say making the sounds immediately, and began chewing happily on the biscuit. I was surprised that she caved in easily. Junior reminded me forcibly of a young girl no older than three that was running around a public office where I went to transact business. Her parents seemed incapable of keeping her seated for more than a minute, and woefully incapable of disciplining her. I shook my head, and suddenly became uncomfortably aware that some thing or things had just dropped on my arm. I looked down at my arm and then at the woman by my side. There was no bun remaining in her hand. Clearly the bits of egg on my arm had fallen from her mouth.
         "Sorry." She said, sounding truly apologetic.
         "It’s okay." I lied and before I could find my hanky, she tried to wipe them off as though the bits of egg were liquid. The result was that her open palm crushed the bits of egg onto my arm, making the whites stick to my skin.
         "Don’t worry." I pulled out my hanky from my pocket and removed it. At that moment, the bus entered into a pothole and I was lifted momentarily from my seat and brought back to the seat with force. "Ye!" I exclaimed in a low tone. The metal had jammed my seat bone. Because my seat was directly above the tire, I felt every bump and every shudder. Hoping Chris Chemist wasn’t too far away, I returned my attention to the “drug peddler” just in time to see him hold up a small container for us all to see. He claimed the cream could cure scabies, rabies and itching in the private parts. No one had bought anything before now and I took comfort in the fact that NAFDAC’s commercials were finally enlightening the public to the dangers of buying fake drugs, especially from peddlers like the skinny man in front of me. He repeated himself again for everyone’s benefit that the yellow cream inside the small container could cure itching in the private parts. He demonstrated itching, making it immediately clear that he wasn't referring to that occassional, pleasurable itch in the crotch but something more sinister. . . I felt the woman by my side squirm in apparent discomfort. Who would buy medication for that private problem in a place as public as a bus full of people? And from a hawker you couldn’t even trace if for instance the cream damages your skin. . . To my surprise I heard someone from behind me say:
        “Gimme one." I had started turning my head to see this person when I decided against it. It would embarrass him. Money changed hands and a second voice from behind called out:
        “Bring am come.” Money changed hands again. Two sales. I still did not turn but tried to imagine their bold faces. My imagination was cut short when my nostrils took in the repugnant smell of fart. I don’t think I've smelt anything worse ooze out the behind of a human being, the smell was terrible. I suddenly had the mad urge to throw open the window despite the heavy rain. Soon other passengers began to move in discomfort. “Jesus Christ” I thought desperately, holding my breath. I had another mad urge to brave the rain and alight from the bus no matter how far away Chris Chemist was.  
        "Hmmmmmmm!" Junior shrieked loudly drawing all eyes to him, echoing what all everyone else wanted to yell but decorum prevented. “Mummy! Mummy!” He shook her with one hand while the other pinched his nose shut. “Mummy, someone has polluted!” He fanned the front of his nose rapidly after he had successfully forced his mother to acknowledge him. She tried unsuccessfully to shut him up with her eyes (he refused to understand the message) and then she put her index fingers to her lips to tell him to shut it. “Mummy, it’s smelling…hmmmm!” he shrieked. I wanted to laugh, but opening my mouth would mean taking in all of this foul air which I had already begun to suspect was coming from my seat mate especially since she was the only one at this point not showing any signs of discomfort. This time, Junior’s mother cupped her hands around his mouth but he fought her off easily. He stopped shouting but continued to fan the air around his nose rapidly and look at the other occupants, clearly at loss to why the rest of us could not smell something so rotten, it was turning my stomach.
         But we could smell it. It was filling our lungs rapidly and we all made appropriate but covert motions to block our nostrils from inhaling any more of the noxious gas. There was a young man who couldn’t hold his breath any longer, so he opened the window, letting rain and cold wind fall on his face. Everyone seemed to lean towards the window like plants in a dark box gravitating towards the only source of light. But it was short-lived. The man seated behind him was dressed in a suit and asked him loudly, perhaps rudely, to shut it. Everyone including I, stared at him like he was the Devil incarnate, but he pointed to his threadbare suit and glared back at everyone defiantly. Someone behind me whispered to the passengers seated at his side about the “akwa-oche” suit the man was wearing and then they sniggered. But our smelly problem had not been solved. Although it had abated a little, it hung heavily in the air like rotting…rotting…egg…Who ate egg? The woman beside me had and she sat there calm and composed, looking straight ahead. I put two(she was the only one on the bus I knew had eaten egg) and two (she was the only one who showed no signs of discomfort) together and decided she was the one who had farted, remembering her peculiar body movement earlier on.
        "Chris Chemist?" The conductor asked. Before I could find breath to yell “Yes!” a couple of other people said it. He banged the side of the bus loudly and the bus stopped. I hurried to get off it. Luckily I had the exact fare on me, so I did not have to linger while he sorted through the crumpled bills in his hand for change. I gave him the money and rushed past. Immediately I alighted, I took in a great gulp of air without thinking and I gagged. I looked around to find the culprit fouling the air this time. It sat there staring me boldly in the face; A refuse heap close to where I stood. I shook my head and crossed the road heading for the park where I would catch the next bus to Nsukka.

Outside the Gates of the US Embassy in Nigeria

I arrived the US embassy in Nigeria in a bright yellow taxi cab on a bright Monday morning - quite early I should add because I was advised to- and was surprised to see a mob of Nigerians in a corner outside its gates. They were waiting for the appointed hour to queue up, so they could gain entry and attend various appointments. Because there are usually lots of people, every applicant strives to arrive early, really early, so they can be attended to. The sign on the huge gate stated that applicants could begin to queue at five-thirty am, I had arrived by six-thirty am and since my appointment wasn’t till 11am, I had a long time to wait. I had brought some reading material, but quite unlike myself, I put it aside and chose to study the throng of people I was waiting with.

The security guards were very much alert, perhaps due to the recent terrorist attacks on some US embassies in foreign countries. We were briefed on the items that we would not be permitted to carry through their gates for security reasons. After the announcement, I returned my attention to my fellow would be immigrants. They came in all shapes and sizes, conditions and demeanours. There were husbands and wives towing toddlers; there were single men and women, some looked educated and sharp, while others (some scantily clad) left my seatmate and I pondering aloud how they intended to earn a livelihood when they got into the United States - if they got into the United States; then there were college-age youths who looked naïve and excited. They all had hope, desperation and anxiety etched on their faces.

Is our motherland Nigeria, such a hopeless case that our best and brightest are shipping out in droves to more affluent countries? Cars drove past, in between the waiting crowd backing the lagoon, and the embassy gates; its occupants looking out on us both in wonder and embarrassment. How many billion dollars worth of oil do we ship out daily? How many hectares of fertile land do we have? The answer to these questions leave much more unanswered. While musing, something occurred to me. I had been sitting outside for over two hours and had seen no activity at the neighbouring embassy. It was almost as though it did not exist. I came to the conclusion that people were not very enthusiastic about migrating to a country less affluent than the United States.

My long wait for my appointment was over. The time was eleven am. There was a surge to form the queue, and everyone was shoving and jostling for a more prominent position in the line. I found my former seatmate close to me once more and he quipped that this was another form of slavery except, unlike the colonial times when people were kidnapped or hoodwinked into going abroad; nowadays people are willing to be shipped. How many people enter for Visa Lotteries? How many of those people win the lotteries? How many of the people who win, get the Almighty Green card, finally make it over there?

Endless questions. I did not have time to answer them, though they weighed heavily on my mind. I concentrated my efforts on maintaining my position on the line. I want the American dream James Truslow Adams spoke about. Most people worldwide want the American dream. How many can have the American dream? I strongly believe it’s time we fixed up our country and the continent at large and created the Nigerian dream, or perhaps the African dream. Then other persons in other countries will jostle at our embassy gates for Nigerian visa's and passports. For now, the best and brightest (me included) will continue to leave the Nigerian shore in droves.

Abuja - Out of Nigeria

My plane touched down the runway of Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja, and taxied to a stop. It was my first time in FCT, the "hyped” capital of The Federal Republic of Nigeria. I had not seen anything awesome yet, but I kept my fingers crossed as I took a drive from the airport into the city. Along the way, I saw a whirlwind of dust on the side of the road. It was spinning fast and raising dry leaves. I had seen whirlwinds of the same proportion in Port Harcourt so I was not impressed.

Immediately I drove into the city, I sensed something wrong with the picture, but I could not place it. Then it hit me! There was a conspicuous absence of hawkers and beggars; also we had driven for about thirty minutes without encountering any traffic jam! That could be termed abnormal in most states of the country. Little did I know I would be seeing much more “abnormal” activity during my trip. Along the way my cheerful cab driver Abbas, pointed Zuma rock out from the many surrounding hills. What set Zuma rock apart from the rest? I did not ask, it seemed pointless to do so.

If I was waiting to be awed, I was in for a thrill. The central district was so interesting, I had to turn my head frequently so I would not miss anything. Damn that camera I forgot in Port-Harcourt! There were architectural beauties everywhere I turned; Nigeria Defense Headquarters, Radio House, Transcorp Hilton, Nicon Insurance to name a few! It seemed like the architectural firms in Abuja were trying to outdo each other by producing elaborate, breathtaking designs. Nothing so exotic as to compare with first world cities, but definitely impressive for a developing African nation. There were lots of tall buildings under construction that were certain to be eye poppers for the average unexposed Nigerian. Yet despite all this development, there were lots of greenery and plant life everywhere I turned. This was sure to please conservationists. A calm and beautiful place, Abuja boasts of some of the most beautiful views in the country, which will wow the worst skeptic and please those with refined aesthetic tastes.

There were large four lane roads that ensured a steady and free flow of traffic. The taxi cabs I saw were neat and did not spew out black carbon monoxide like those in other states. Then of course, there were the exotic rides…cars that define affluence. Peugeot 406 rides raced down the roads with other sleek automobiles. Where were the poor people I wondered? I was informed later of the “satellite towns” where the lower middle class and the poor co-inhabit because life in the big city is much too expensive. The city was unnatural by Nigerian standards. It had been forcefully weeded of the poor and needy. It was empty of real life – the larger percent of the Nigerian population- the poor. Abuja is probably the most well planned Nigerian city and the first without a durable plan for the poor. A shame, for a country with lots of the poor. If you plan to take a trip to the Federal Capital Territory, take along a fat wallet and don't forget your camera!