Can you believe it? #Nigerian roads #unityinNigerianfootball
Lydia Aremu@lydiaaremu315367
10 months ago
A Driver’s Ordeal
Incapacitating and ugly,
A marvelous stress trigger,
The roads - paradise?
The roads - hell,
Rough was an understatement.
I hoped the mechanic fixed it.
My fear of a reoccurrence
The trip’s events.
Car fainted
In the middle of nowhere
Next town 22km away.
Being a Nigerian driver was tough.
I recounted.
But my mind that day,
was on the football match.
If I could make it before 4pm.
Just if …
Better a viewing centre,
chauvinistic centre,
liquor, male smell centre.
But the ruthless roads,
The unexpectedly parked vehicles,
Sometimes on sharp turns
Mostly long and overloaded
A state of anarchy
No one was binding.
Now sighting the white and black
Now, blue and black or yellow and black imps
Usually and suitably at the worst points.
A driver took the risk,
Sped pass the potholes,
Yelling curses at the officers.
“I am not going to give a dime.”
“With this recent hike on car particulars,
And insurance!” I pondered.
“What am I going to do?”
“This one looks like a rookie,” I thought.
“Speed up, the mechanic boy did a good job.”
I thought I heard the devil’s voice.
Not in the mood. I felt.
My mistake.
Stop “park well!” he ordered.
Few minutes later, arguments and raining of insults.
Papers and license in his hands.
Sitting firmly in the silver big-for-nothing
I had a change of heart.
I was ready for these parasites.
Half an hour later,
While silently fighting for my rights,
A dilapidated, chassis-falling, overloaded seats,
Opened overloaded booth, heavy bags on top,
Four chickens hanging upside down each side-mirror;
Couldn’t tell what make it was,
At a snail’s pace, driver smiling
Greeting in a native language
My exploiters waving back.
A sharp piercing anger filled me up
“Why didn’t you stop that one?”
“Oga, what is your own?”
“Are my papers complete or not?”
“You don’t have manners.”
Stunned. Was he sick upstairs?
Next 20 minutes, okada, a cow on back seat!
The rider, my detainers discussed in admiration.
Well, I was ready for the circus.
I was not going to give a kola.
Tuned on the car radio,
With luck, the football commentary.
I noticed reactions.
The know-nots were listening.
Our shadows grew taller now,
“What is your name, Oga?
“Mr Komolafe”
“Where are you from?”
“I am from Ife.”
“Ife-Modakeke people and trouble!”
“Just go!”
I presumed that was an apology.
Slamming the car door, my journey continued.
Thinking about the time wasted,
Trying to keep it cool.
Then, at 2 stone-throws, a new set of imps.
This time, I knew too well.
I was not going to give sisi.
Accelerating,
I sped pass the potholes.
Like living mannequins,
The imps flew into nearby bushes.
“Useful-not people,” I cursed.
A wake of dust behind me
Screams, five-wide-fingers signals,
Responses to my action.
In my living-room,
Recollecting my ordeal,
My pregnant wife nagging,
Something I wasn’t listening to.
Obviously in need of banknotes, I concluded.
Then the alarm, I forgot.
The betting odds were in my favour.
One hundred and three thousand.
At least, I could save myself
Temporarily,
From the discomfort at home.
While I watch the replay.
@Lydia Omobolanle
#poetry
