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.

---

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

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.

 

 

—————————

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/

A Saturday Morning, Some Alcohol and a Secret.

It was a Saturday.

I think.

I think it was a Saturday.

Or you know what? I’m not sure. There was very little difference between the various days of the week to me. I had structured my life in a way that made my schedule entirely under my control, and so the days of the week had no special significance other than that which I assigned to them.

Mondays were no different from Sundays because there was no early morning rush to get dressed and head to work. My working hours were very flexible, and completely determined by me. Every day of the week was the same- entirely open to my interpretation, and entirely subject to my intent.

Well, banks didn’t open on Sundays. This was one way external routines still exerted some sort of influence on my life: There could be no banking on Sundays. But the banks were open on Saturdays. Banks are open on Saturdays in Cape Verde.

I got up that morning with a pliable schedule: What did I intend to do?

I probably walked about in my studio apartment for a while, doing some things which I now do not remember. I then opened the door, basking in the exhilarating view of Praia Antonio D’Souza- the excellent beach on the South side of the island of Sal. I loved that beachfront apartment. I really loved it.

I do not remember how I got upstairs. I probably bumped into one of my Cape Verdean neighbours in the hotel, had a short chat (as much as I was able to chat in Cape Verdean Creole- a language which I was only mildly fluent in) and then followed him upstairs to spend some time with his friends.

—————————————————

They were passing around a cup. Inside it was some sort of beverage. It had evidently been mixed with alcohol- I could smell it. I did not object. I accepted the communal cup and gently sipped some of their questionable beverage.

We were all enjoying our conversation- the alcohol was doing its job I think. Inside my head I was marvelling at my position: living in a foreign country, spending time with interesting locals and engaging in conversation, partly in a completely new language. I was living the life.

Every once in a while though, my mind would steer my attention to my MacBook Pro in my apartment downstairs. That computer was my most prized possession- I spent thousands of dollars purchasing it in San Francisco, USA. And these Cape Verdean boys, interesting and exotic as they were, were very light fingered. A number of things had spontaneously gone missing from my place in the preceding few weeks: My binoculars, my mini-drone, my bluetooth speakers, and God knows what else had gone missing that I had not yet noticed.

These boys were thieves.

And so in reaction to that, I resorted to hiding my MacBook Pro in the ceiling of my room whenever I was going out. The door to the room had a non-functional lock, and Simon- my Senegalese neighbour cum de facto caretaker, had not fixed it despite my having provided him with the money.

And so while I was chatting with the guys in Creole and sipping their dubious drink, my inner man was very anxious about the safety of my computer.

Shit what if one of them finds out where I keep it?

Nah they can’t. My hiding place is pretty covert.

Wait but what if they do?

Calm down Mayowa, calm down your MacBook is safe. 

Shit but what if they do though? I mean, look at that guy, the one with the purple beanie- look at how widely he’s grinning. He knows. He definitely knows. Oh he so knows. Fuck I am in so much trouble, fuck.

My MacBook Pro is gone, my MacBook Pro is fucking gone. Fuck.

“A odj means to see.” One of my Cape Verdean neighbours said to me.

“Ahh. A odj. To see. Ohh.” I nodded my head excitedly, adding the new term to my Creole lexicon.

“Ah wait, so that hotel- the really nice one by the beach- Odjo d’Agua, Odjo means to see right? And Agua means water right?”

“Yes yes!” Replied Nilton. “Odjo d’Agua means sea view! Sea view!”

“Ahhhh. Sea view! Odjo d’Agua! Ahhh!” The previously cryptic name of the hotel suddenly realized some sort of meaning in my head. Before that moment, all it was was the nebulous indecipherable alien name of some fancy hotel.

I was enjoying myself.

“Odjo d’Agua. Sea view. Ahhhh.” I nodded slowly to myself.

Two of the guys in the room were engaging in a transaction. I think one of them was buying marijuana from the other. Marijuana was definitely something that united young people from all over the world. From all walks of life. If there was a global political party having Marijuana as being core to its ideology it would definitely have all of the world’s young people solidly behind it. Definitely.

It was time for the Marijuana-buyer to pay his vendor. He walked to a corner of the room and stood on a small table that was positioned there. He tiptoed and stretched his right hand into the ceiling…

My brain froze.

He was reaching into the ceiling to get his money. Where he kept his money was exactly the same position I had hidden my MacBook Pro in my own room.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit Mayowa.

Your hiding place is no fucking secret.

Everybody knows it.

Everybody fucking knows it.

Fuck.

Your MacBook Pro is gone.

Your MacBook Pro is fucking gone.

Fuck.

 

 

PS: I actually do not swear this much. I only indulged in profanities to this extent because I was in a pretty precarious situation. And all of the swearing was in my head anyway, not out loud.

For those bothered about the swearing, that is.

Lagos, Nigeria: If You Were a Woman, I Wouldn’t/ The Hotel Scene.

I am seated at the table of the person who appears to be the Chief Security Officer at Protea Hotel- a four star hotel in the Government Reserved Area of the city of Ikeja- Lagos Nigeria.

Prior, I was at Sheraton Hotel. I was in an impassioned verbal altercation with the human beings who happened to be the Security Guards there.

“What? Call the Police? Call the what?”

“Because I am a Thief? Because there is an AK-47 in my backpack with which I intend to murder everyone in the hotel? Or what are you even saying?”

I was extremely annoyed. The guards were pissing me off. The guards were really pissing me off.

“I was just at Sheraton. The guards there were getting me very angry. I honestly do not know what sort of human beings those ones are. I honestly do not know.”

We engage in discussion for a while. I endeavour to disentangle a number of conflated notions in his head- all of them involving money. Money and Causality. Money, and the generously misguided perspective of it being a (the) principal causal variable. Powerful, yes. But principal. No.

Foundational No.

I think he sees my point.

During the discussion, he says something that strikes a chord in my mind:

“If you were a woman, I would not let you go in.”

I stop to think.

This is not an all-inclusive hotel. Use of the restaurant, bar, etcetera, without the requirement of being a guest, is perfectly allowed. Why then does he say this? Why then?

I do not exactly identify myself as a feminist- no not exactly. However I am of the perspective that other things being equal, people should be assessed by their merits, and that a particular (percieved to be non-threatening) facet of a person’s identity should not be taken as a basis for discrimination.

And so what he said impinged on a note in my mind.

What does he mean?

What is he talking about?

It took a moment, and then his words hit meaning.

There’s the appeal of the single woman at the bar. Well I’m speaking from a (heterosexual) male perspective. And this is not exactly something unknown- that women are possessing of endowments/ of powers, which can be employed to galvanize men into subsumptive action.

And so in my perspective the Officer’s standpoint was a strategy intended to preempt eventualities involving the maneuvering of a male guest at the hotel- said maneuvering effectuated with the intention to uplift the concerned female’s financial, etcetera, situation.

“Hmm. That makes sense.”

His perspective struck meaning.

I wonder if someday a woman will visit the hotel like I did, and encounter the concerned officer. And challenge his perspective.

I wonder.

I think I‘d want to be friends with that person.

Maybe more than friends, I don’t know.

Maybe.

If You Were a Woman, I Wouldn’t.