Desert Meanderings. 1.

It’s a random night in January.

I’m walking along Sal’s major highway – the one that extends along the island’s longitudinal axis like a vein.

I’m headed towards Santa Maria, at the southernmost end of the island.

The road is smooth and empty. Population here is low relative to land area, so the road is usually empty at any given instance in time – as far as the eye can see.

I enjoy playing dreamy surreal songs from Wildlight while walking along this road at night. Autograf too. I like their music too for stuff like this.

I walk along the edge of the road as it wraps over a hill. On a good hill you can see the edges of the island. During the day.

I think it’s an interesting feeling: Standing on a highway and being able to see the water lapping against different shores delineating the island. It makes you much more keenly aware that you’re really just standing on a piece of land surrounded by water.

Any piece of ground anywhere on the planet is a part of an expanse of land surrounded by water, but it’s just never really something you’re very conscious of- until you’re staring at the different edges of the stretch of land you’re standing on.

---

I’ve just come across someone. A guy. He’s about the same age as I am. Thereabouts.

There’s a tall structure off the highway. A little into the desert. I’m not sure what it is. It looks like something in-between a lighthouse and a telecommunications mast.

I think I was walking towards it out of curiosity when I came across him. He works security there. He’s on a night shift.

We talk for a bit. He’s from the Gambia I think.

There’s something of a language barrier, so we can’t communicate extensively. We spend some time hanging out in his living quarters. It’s a small room at the base of the tall structure. We’re talking about Santa Maria, and watching some Youtube videos on his phone.

It’s strange seeing technology from the perspective of an insider-somewhat. To a lot of people an app is really just a name that they generally associate with the emotions they experience from using it.

And the company behind the app, the people who build are maintain it, are really just this nebulous, extra-terrestrial and omniscient “They”. “The YouTube people”, “The Google people”, etc.

I recently spent about a year living in Silicon Valley, and so that gave me something of an insider perspective into apps and software technology in general. There’s the insider perspective you get from learning about how the tech works, and there’s the social dimension you get from living in a place that’s renowned for software development.

The people behind the apps are neither nebulous, nor extra-terrestrial, nor omniscient. They’re people. Like everyone else. Things that generally happen to people also happen to them.

---

At some point I feel like I should head back on the road. I mention that to him. We talk a bit more as we head out of his quarters.

He looks like he could use some company on his solitary nights shifts. He also seems to miss his family back in The Gambia.

We exchange our goodbyes and I head out into the night.

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Image: Hanging off some weathered rocks somewhere on the western edge of Sal island.

Lost at Night in San Francisco.

I am walking by a graveyard.

It is a military graveyard- the people buried here were likely casualties in some war.

I walk amidst the headstones, reading off the names. A lot of these people were young men.

As I walk through this throng of gravesite markers in the dead of the night, I begin to wonder what things were left undone by these people. Just how much was left undone.

Words never said. Ideas never conceived. Aspirations never accomplished. Lovers never met. Lovers never seen again. Children never had.

The graveyard feels loud. It feels loud with voices- voices destructively interfered with, by untimely death.

It’s in the middle of the night here at the Presidio in San Francisco, but strangely I feel somewhat deafened by the riotous voices seeming to bubble to the surface from the graves, and overhang the general area like a dark insidious cloud of suppressive heaviness.

In a few months I’ll be having dinner with a classmate couple in Berlin. One of them’ll mention something about how whatever happens in life is for the best. Even the very negative things, like untimely death. I’ll ask her if she really thinks that perspective is valid, or if it’s just palliative. She’ll say she’s not quite sure.

I keep walking.

At some point I come upon an asphalt road. I put down my skateboard and begin to skate.

---

I am skateboarding by one of the very interesting Revivalist buildings which populate the Presidio. Some guy walks out of one of these buildings. The room he walks out from, is very brightly lit. I think he’s security.

He asks me what I’m doing here. I describe my night. Went out for a walk, skateboarded a bit, found myself here, skateboarding onwards. He seems satisfied with my explanation, and tells me to go on and be safe.

I keep moving.

---

I am at the Golden Gate Bridge. I have absolutely no idea how I got here.

I began this night by heading out of the dorms at Nob Hill. I doubt I could find my way to the bridge during the day without a map and without asking for directions. I have no idea how I managed to do it at night.

A few minutes ago I was walking along a footpath bordered by some brush and some short wooden poles which had some sort of rope strung between them. I headed out of the footpath and voila, there was the Golden Gate Bridge right up ahead.

---

I am at some sort of a car park. I’m trying some ollies on the skateboard. I still haven’t gotten the ollie thing down.

A guy at the Sunset district expressed some humorous scorn when I told him I had been skateboarding for about a year. He was surprised I couldn’t really do any serious tricks.

I was somewhat taken by surprise. I still considered myself a young skateboarder- one who consequently deserved some slack with regard to proficiency at tricks. I was surprised by what he said.

He was an interesting guy. Steven. Steven with a South American last name. Said he was a jeweler. Looked like he was high most of the time. I was curious what his day was like as a jeweler. I wondered what his office/workspace looked like and stuff.

He expressed some sort of disapproval at Nob Hill as a residential location.

“Noise everywhere from the passing vehicles, homeless people…”

At that point I realized how quiet the Sunset District was. I had spent the past few months getting used to, and even coming to enjoy the auditory bustle of Nob Hill, but at that moment I realized there was definitely a point in his perspective.

He was riding this bike. Modified bike. It had large handlebars and a strangely low seat. He looked like he was riding a bike meant for preschoolers, but at the same time it looked cool. He said he built it himself. Said he intended to exhibit it at some event for modified bikes coming up soon.

---

I am at the Golden Gate Bridge. I have no idea how I got here. But that’s not so much of a problem. The actual problem is that I have no idea how to get back.

I have expended pretty much all of the impatient repressed energy that sent me bursting out of the dorms this night, to the amusing amusement of the Turkish-looking security guard. No way I’m skateboarding back to Nob Hill this night. I don’t even feel it. My body has no such plans right now.

---

I am in an office. I think it’s an interesting office, because it looks exactly like the movie depiction of American police stations.

I take some time to stare around the room, taking in the very interesting space while feeling like someone just threw me in the middle of a movie scene being filmed.

I walk up to an officer sitting by a window overlooking the bridge. He looks obese, most likely because of the sedentary nature of his job.

I explain my situation to him: Left Nob Hill on a walk, found myself here, don’t know how to get back etc.

He seems very nice and kind. He makes a phone call and tells me not to worry. Says someone is coming to get me. I feel relieved.

I ask him what he is doing by that window. It doesn’t look like he’s taking in a leisurely view of the bridge at night. It looks like he’s doing his job.

He says every once in a while someone comes along with the intention to jump off the bridge. He’s there to prevent that from happening successfully.

Oh wow. That’s pretty intense.

I wonder how computers could possible be equipped to carry out such a task. I don’t know, maybe there’s some sort of a pattern in the gait of suicidal people that computers could learn to pick up on. I don’t know, maybe.

---

My ride is here. I thank the kind officer at the station, and head into the car.

I’m being driven by a young police officer in his mid-to-late twenties. We’re engaging in conversation. He says he recently got married. Says some people think it’s strange he got married pretty early, but that he’s very happy with it. Happy with his marriage and his wife.

To be honest, I’m in the group that thinks it’s strange. I think he’s a loser for getting married.

Have some woman somewhere with whom you go snuggle every night. What a loser.

In the next few months I’ll find myself in love. And everything he’s saying will make profound sense to me. I don’t know anything now. I don’t know anything.

---

We’ve reached my stop. I can get a bus to my destination from here. I think the police officer, wish him goodnight and head out of the car.

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Image: A different night. With a skateboard borrowed from a Chinese classmate.

Of Rain Battered Windshields and Enthusiastic Sex Workers.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.

It is raining heavily. The windshield is rendered worryingly translucent by the barrage of splattering raindrops that seem to just pour out of the darkness ahead of us.

There are no streetlamps, and the night is completely dark.

The windshield wiper is non-functional, and so there seems to be no way to periodically wipe away the film of water that threatens to take both of our lives this night by obscuring the highway ahead.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.

The car is moving at a considerably high speed. I do not know how fast exactly we are going. This guy’s speedometer is broken.

How can he see anything? His headlamps are on, but the path ahead of us is almost entirely obfuscated by the relentless rain.

If someone stood five feet in front of the car and raised three fingers up in the air, discerning how many fingers were up wouldn’t be the problem. The problem would be that it would be difficult to even see the human being standing there in the first place.

And yet this guy at the wheel is throttling the vehicle without a care in the world.

We are going to die.

We are going to fucking die.

 

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Handsome man! Let’s go to my room!

She caresses my arm and gently pulls me towards her.

Where did you say they sell the drinks?

We’re almost there. It’s right up ahead.

Okay okay.

I free myself from her pull.

I’m still around, don’t worry! I’m still around!

She gradually pulls away her gaze and then continues discussing with some people- people who I believe are prospective customers.

 

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Olamide’s “Don’t Stop” is playing.

Two guys are dancing in the middle of the dancefloor. One is considerably tall, and the other is relatively smaller. Their chemistry is interesting. They’re facing each other and making stylish poses and smiling. They both have bandanas on, and they’re both wearing some white. Their chemistry is very interesting. I’m smiling in my seat.

 

Handsome man! Come let’s go to my room!

She softly rubs my jeans in a sensitive area.

For some reason I’ve been catching the attention of the sex workers in this place.

I’m not quite sure why that is.

Such a sexual arrangement is not going to be healthy, very exciting or satisfying for me.

I’m sorry, I still intend to spend more time listening to the music.

 

———————————————

 

Where did you go? I came to the car but I didn’t see you!

Haha I was probably somewhere attending to the stimulants I bought. Now I’m just in here enjoying my high.

Okay okay, open the passenger’s door. This rain is annoying.

It’s open it’s open.

Okay.

I get in.

 

PS:

I’m not quite sure what to do next with this blog.

On the one hand, I find it not just exciting but very psychologically beneficial to have a place where I can express myself, retrospectively walk through my thinking process, and  recount events in my life in some detail. And making such expression publicly accessible gives a feeling that is markedly different from private journalling.

But on the other hand, I’m beginning to get increasingly concerned that somehow some information I implicitly or explicitly make available here could somehow be used to constitute problems for me in my life. I’m not quite sure how, but I feel the possibility exists.

And so I’m currently weighing the entire thing. Pros versus possible cons. And I should not have to wait for the actualization of an undesirable eventuality before I make modifications. So now I’m thinking about how I can make preemptive adjustments. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about the whole thing.

Suggestions are welcome. Suggestions are very welcome. Please feel free to give feedback. Thanks.

 

Image:

A different night.

A Story of Headlamps, Watchmen and Machetes.

At The Bus Stop.

It is 11:30 pm as I arrive at my destination bus stop in Ogun state.

It is late. I am just returning from a meeting with a new friend at a restaurant in Ikeja. When I was leaving, I told my father I would try to get back early. I didn’t really mean it, but I did not expect to get back this late.

I stand at the bus stop, contemplating the best way to get to my parents’ place. Usually there are commercial motorcyclists waiting to convey passengers, but it is too late now. There are no motorcyclists around at this time of the night.

It is the rainy season, so the roads are flooded. Roads in Nigeria are generally untarred, except for the major ones. Most of the roads in this country are brown and uneven and bumpy and dusty. In actual fact, I am very hesitant to call them roads. I really just see them as stretches of land on which grasses do not grow because motor vehicles roll over them every now and then. Those things can not be called roads.

And whenever rain falls- and believe me rain does fall in this part of the country, the ground becomes sticky and muddy and bad. Puddles form which are almost as wide as the roads themselves. Motorists try to avoid these huge puddles of brown water by driving along the edges of the road. If it wasn’t for the water in those puddles, I am very sure you could place a bed right in the middle of the road and lie there for an entire day- and absolutely no one would disturb you because everyone was too busy driving along the edges of the road.

As I stand there wondering what to do, a motorcyclist rides towards me.

“A motorcyclist at this time of the night? Ah. Today must be my lucky day”, I think.

I tell him where I’m going and we discuss terms. From his accent, I can tell he is Hausa- from the northern part of the country. Or maybe Fulani. It’s not like I can tell the difference.

“Oga I no fit go that place o. The security wey dey there get very bad mouth- I no like am.”

He explains to me that he cannot take me to my destination. There are some very unruly night watchmen who patrol that area, and he does not like having anything to do with them.

I plead with him and persuade him. Eventually he agrees to take me like three quarters of the way for the full price. I get on his bike. I think it’s a good deal.

 

 

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Encounter with the Watchmen.

“Ogbeni! Pa headlight e jo!”

“Abi eti e di ni! Ani ki o pa headlight e!”

A number of watchmen walk towards us, shouting at the motorbike rider to turn off his headlamp because the light is in their face. They are speaking in Yoruba- one of the major languages in the southwestern part of the country. But the motorbike man is Hausa and from a different part of the country, so he does not understand what they are saying.

“They are saying you should turn off your headlamp, please turn off your headlamp.”

I translate to him in English. He understands, and proceeds to turn off the headlamp of his motorcycle.

Apparently I am too late. The watchmen are already irked. All of a sudden, one of them strikes the motorcycle rider very hard across the chest with the flat side of his machete.

The sound is loud and travels uninhibited through the silence of the night.

“Ahhhhh!!!! You beat me on my chest?! You beat me on my chest?!” The Hausa man cries out.

“Why did you beat me on my chest?!”

“Ogbeni o je ma se were nibi! Nigba ti an so fun e pe ki o pa headlight e o fe gboran abi, on se agidi!”

 The watchmen are obviously unstirred by his righteous cry of indignation.

“Please get down, please get down”, the Hausa man says to me as he gets off his bike and drops it to the ground. He abandons his activist pleas for justice and takes a few moments to clutch his chest and cry out in pain.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!”

The watchmen keep chanting to themselves in Yoruba, unfazed. Justifying their actions and threatening to follow up with more.

After the Hausa man has managed to come to terms with the pain he is experiencing, he continues confronting the watchmen.

“Why did you beat me on my chest?! Why?! Why did you beat me?!”

The volatile watchmen do not take kindly to being confronted. They keep chanting about headlights in Yoruba, raising their voices and brandishing their machetes menacingly.

I am genuinely scared for my safety. I try to do all that I can to prevent the situation from escalating. I gently rub the Hausa man’s shoulders.

“Aboki abeg. Abeg. No vex abeg. No vex.” I attempt to placate him.

“Ejo e ma binu ejo. Ejo e ni suuru. Ko gbo Yoruba ni. Ejo e ma binu.” I try to plead with the watchmen, explaining that the Hausa man did not understand Yoruba.

I don’t think anything I’m doing is working. Everyone is still shouting. Imminent danger still weighs very heavily in the air. I feel very bad for the Hausa man. His English lexicon is very limited, so he does not even seem to have enough words to express his pain.

All of this continues for a few minutes. The Hausa man keeps asking questions, voicing his immense displeasure at the turn of events. The watchmen continue threatening him, and I press on with my completely ineffectual attempts to defuse the situation.

At one point one of the watchmen turns to me and says “Mister, you better go on your way. Or else we will turn on you next.”

On hearing that, I immediately abandon my diplomatic venture and begin to briskly walk away. I’m not in the mood to be assaulted by machetes.

As I leave, the Hausa man’s voice gets louder, with renewed vigour and disgruntlement. 

“Why did you beat me on my chest?!”

I begin to think maybe my soft words were actually calming him down. I turn around briefly to see the watchmen surround him and begin to batter him with their machetes. I turn around and walk faster.

As I walk away, a pang of guilt grips me. In a way, the motorbike man is suffering because of me. Yes he brought me here because he was trying to make a living, but I was the one who persuaded him to come. He did not want to do so initially. I feel distressed because of this, but at the same time I realise I am helpless in this situation because any attempt to take up his fight would seriously jeopardise my wellbeing. So I keep walking.

When I am at a safe distance, I turn around and peep to see if the bike man is still conscious. I am not able to see anything because it is dark, and there are no streetlights. I feel a deep sadness and pity for the innocent man’s suffering. I promise myself that I will give him a significant sum of money the next time I see him.

Eventually I hear the engine of his motorbike revving to life, and I see his headlamp come on. The infamous headlamp which was responsible for everything that had happened. I am glad to know the Hausa man is still largely alright. I heave a sigh of relief, and then I begin to run, in case the tyrannical watchmen decide to turn their attention to the bike man’s passenger.

 

Image Credits: https://privateofficernews.org/uganda-man-attacks-security-officers-with-machete/