The Roads.......

Shortly after the 2007 elections, I traveled from Calabar to Enugu by road in the company of two of my colleagues.
We were to organize a one day interactive symposium in Awka after doing the same in Calabar, but we wanted to make a brief stop in Enugu before proceeding, since it is barely an hour’s drive.
Very early in the morning, we set out for the six hour drive or so we were told because none of us was familiar with the road or geography of the area.
However, the driver told us from his findings, that we were to drive to Ikom which is three hours from Calabar, then we‘ll arrive at a place called Mbok, according to the drivers findings- where we’ll take a left turn and proceed to Abakaliki which will link us to Enugu, in another three hours, through Ogoja, which is also a Local Government Area in Cross River State.
We found the road alright, but what we also found can best be described as serendipity- the surprise you get from making a discovery by accident.
We drove into the most terrible road I had ever seen in my whole life! The road appeared to have been tarred sparingly even at the initial stage of construction, it was adorned with pot holes that were approximately 3-4 ft deep, bright red sticky mud and large expanse of grassland with just a few houses by the road side and the rest were foot paths that obviously opened to villages inside.
We navigated hesitantly at first, trying to select safe pot holes to enter, but as we gradually gained momentum we began to take the bull by the horn with the hope that the bad road will soon come to an end, but we were on our own in this line of thought.
As we gradually “hiked” through, trying to protect the car from the hostile road, we all became lost in our own thoughts, but we seemed to have had the same thing on our minds because the silence was becoming painful and loud then one of our colleagues just said it with the right proportion of humor, but in hausa, he said “nan idan barayi suka zo baza mu tsira ba”, which means, If we bump into armed robbers here none of us will escape. We all laughed nervously but there it was, at least the tension reduced to a considerable extent.
We passed a few trucks carrying building materials and food crops and some colored taxis bumping and belching their way through, oblivious of the squeals and cry of protests made by the cars they drove so carelessly.
Some parts of the road that had about 5metres of level ground were even utilized by villagers from the communities within to dry farm produce like cassava and grains, to show how less often vehicles ply the route.
After driving like this for an hour and a half, we got to a T- junction that looked like a market and a bus stop or motor park as the case may be. There was a rusty sign post indeed, that must have previously carried directions, but we could only make out “Yahen”, which happened to be the name of the village. But most fascinating I dare say, is that none of the roads from that junction showed any sign of civilization, not to talk of the luxury of a tarred road! So we decided to ask for directions.
We asked the first person we saw, who was a GSM card vendor- which was a relief by the way, to know that we could at least make contact incase of any eventuality- to show us the road that will take us to Abakaliki, and he pointed to the left, the left?? The left looked more deserted than the right we had secretly hoped for. Unconvinced, we decided to ask a second and a third but we still got the same answer.
At that point, I must admit, I felt like walking all the way, because even with the air conditioning in the car and fully functional shock absorbers, I felt a donkey ride or any other beast of burden would have been most appropriate and faster for me.
We proceeded grudgingly through the disaster with depression hanging like drapes in the mini van not knowing how long the predicament will last.
In the midst of all these, we couldn’t help but note with keen interest that most of the people that crowded the market place were Fulani.
They were all flagrantly dressed in their usual bright colours, the male carrying their customary sticks, both male and female had long hair braided in unique hairstyles, adorned with make up and variety of coloured accessories.
Even though I am aware of their nomadic nature I was surprised to see them there, there were no cattle in sight though, but they looked at home in their surroundings. It felt so refreshing to know that Nigerians are not doing very badly in terms of integration.
As we progressed, we passed by stalls made of corrugated zinc and wooden shops filled with clothes and food items with people going about their normal activities, unaware of their poor living conditions, or perhaps, “suffering and smiling”, as the case may be;
We were all looking for ways to amuse ourselves and forget the rigorous journey that beckoned on us, nevertheless, we still couldn’t understand why on earth, someone will recommend such a road to us, there has to be another route we lamented, we even considered turning back to follow any longer route we could find, as long as we didn’t spend more time on that road, of course flying was out of the question, but it seemed the most logical option in our state of mind.
Then to our utmost amazement we saw a checkpoint. We were really amazed by this checkpoint because we had concluded that the area must be among the remotest areas of the country that the government is not even aware of, In fact, my instincts were already stirring me to write an exclusive story, to stop and take photographs of the place, so they could be published and brought to the fore, I was even thinking of stopping to ask if they were counted during the census, if at all they voted and if its possible for me to see the polling station and even have a chat with a district head or any kind of leader or spokesperson they could recommend.
At some point, I was even convinced that they do not belong to any constituency in that area because it won’t be possible to have a representative in the parliament and still live in such deplorable conditions, I mean, there are situations like this, but trust me, not to this extent. However, a checkpoint was right in front of us to emphasize that this area is not only recognized but protected.
To start with, there was no sign of potable water anywhere close by because as we moved away from the checkpoint young girls passed us riding bicycles with jerry cans of water while others that had more strength carried large basins on their heads, walking briskly and sweating profusely as the water forced the basin to sway from side to side, threatening to throw the basin and the carrier away. Even though we drove slowly and passed a lot of the “water girls” we couldn’t ascertain how far they went to get the water, or even determine the source.
As we rolled towards the second checkpoint, which was barely ten minutes away, we noticed the remains of a primary school; it had a tall rusty sign board which had weathered over the years. There was no roof on any of the buildings but all the doors on the two blocks of classroom were shut tightly like vaults. From a distance, they looked like they will give way at the slightest nod, yet, the strong building which looked unwilling to collapse just yet gave it its firm support.
The visibly utilized football field though told another story, we passed the school around four in the afternoon, and there was no sign of uniformed students except a few kids running round the school premises. So is it possible that the school is fully operational?
Still ahead, we saw an uncompleted cement building for the first time, in contrast to the mud buildings we had seen initially. The building was complete up to the lintel level, although it looked weather-beaten and tired, it carried a bold message written in light blue paint, “this house is not for sale, beware of 419ers”.
Before we got to the fourth checkpoint, we saw three beautiful girls who must have been between 8-10 years of age they held hands happily and two of them were laughing hard, probably at something one of them had said, then my colleague said what future do these innocent children have in this place? Will they ever get a chance to see or feel the “outside world?”
This question sounded like he was thinking aloud and he did not direct it to me, but the question plagued me to the extent that I realized I was searching the area critically, as if trying to get an answer hung somewhere within the village that looked like a typical 17th century setting. Then I saw a glossy poster neatly posted on one of the cracked mud buildings that was professionally thatched with palm fronds, at first I couldn’t make out what was on the picture, but as we came closer I saw the campaign picture of the President, Umar Yar’adua and his vice, Goodluck Jonathan. This finally shut me up.
We passed six other checkpoints, including one for cash produce which as the name implies is designed to “tax” those who transport cash produce. However, we were let through without much ado, so much so that at the ninth checkpoint, we drove confidently past the drums, firewood and palm fronds that were instruments of the road block while The Police Officers were chatting away with some truck drivers. We were just about to zoom off after carefully avoiding the obstacles when we heard a commotion from behind and we looked back in time to see two of them with their guns pointed to the back of the car so we bolted to a stop and one of them came over to meet us “na so them dey pass road block?” he said and we were all silent “when you see these things you no sabi say you suppose stop? Oya identify yourself” this question was directed to me because I was securely strapped in seatbelt with large sunglasses, on the passenger’s seat in front of the bus, for some unknown reason I was tempted to burst out laughing which would have been disastrous so I kept scolding myself not to. Rather impatient he pressed on “who are you” and I thought that is the big question because to my understanding the answer to be provided must either identify me as an affluent person myself or an associate/relative of an affluent person, so I remained quiet because I thought it won’t make any difference. “Let me see your ID card”, then I quickly showed it to him and he said “what work do you do here” I answered “we’re only passing through” and he retorted angrily “I say what work do you do” so I said media development “ok na you dey develop media here? na you put that big, mast abi?(pointing at communication masts in the far distance) Oya show me your equipment” at this point I could only ask God for protection because I was already convulsing with laughter because of the seriousness with which he said this. But to my relief, he joined me and said to the driver, “Driver just make sure say you stop whenever you see checkpoint you hear?!” And he let us through, without asking for the customary largesse.
We were still laughing when we realized we had made our final exit from the challenging road.

This is a True Story.....

I attended a birthday party which was organised in one of the gardens in Abuja, it was a small gathering, but the guests were the most diverse i had ever seen! everyone was dressed as it is characteristic of Abuja social gatherings, and the food? people cared more about the drinks i must say, from the alcoholic to the non-alcoholic... there were finger chops as well, but the most attractive was the chicken. from the corner we were seated, my friends and i noticed that the chicken was not as much as the other variety, but while making small talk about the chops, we decided that if all of us were to take one each, there'll be just enough to go round.

We had just finished sharing that thought when the celebrant made her way to our table in company of one of her friends. He was very large in size and he wore a sagging short niker, probably because the "belly" won't allow much space.

We all stood up and greeted the celebrant, we hugged and exchanged pleasantries, but i couldn't help but notice that the celebrant's companion had started to come towards us like the celebrant, but he decided against it as if something more important had caught his attention.

He took a U-turn and quietly made his way to the carefully laid "chops" for a second i thought "oh my God!" but it was too late, he pulled a chair right in front of the chicken and tore open the cling film that was used to cover the tray... while he was at it, someone whispered to him audibly enough, "Bros, share the chicken with other people now" but to my surprise, he only passed a few pieces and continued to eat from the tray until other people made bold to join him in what seemed like the "last Supper" segment of the event. Of course, the chicken didn't go round.

Why did i take time to plough through this long anecdote? simply put, as Nigerians, we often speak, discuss and always try to figure out how our resources will be shared, then one person appears from nowhere and single handedly decides to give us tiny portions of what rightfully belongs to us while he eats from the source right there in our faces, relishing his satisfaction at the expense of our wide eyes and gaping mouths!