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We just left Obalende.
I had run out of liquid funds. A trenchant consequence of the severely disorienting impediment constituted by the violent protests, was that the trip had taken about two days longer than planned.
It should have been about four/five hours max. It is now about two days since I left my place of abode. I’m still not yet at my destination.
I asked a number of people for money at the bus stop, because cash on hand had run out.
I used to think asking people for money was a sign of poverty- A negative thing. Okay well maybe when it’s a continual occurrence in one’s life. But every once in a while? In cases involving like unprecedented/extremely unlikely circumstances? I don’t think there’s anything wrong. I really do not think so.
A few months ago I was in a public transportation bus. The fare was about N50 more than I expected, and I didn’t have enough cash on hand to pay the bus conductor. At the time I had a few million Naira in the bank. I was literally a millionaire. Like, millionaire in terms of liquid funds, and not even assets or net worth. Well in Nigerian Naira at least.
Two options seemed clear to me:
One: Exit the bus, go withdraw some money, get back.
Two: Ask the guy sitting beside you to help you out with the required fifty Naira.
I was very tired that afternoon. The Nigerian sun was extra-blistering that day. Just the thought of re-entering the searing radiation being propagated across space from the distressingly merciless object at the center of this solar system, injected my consciousness with some serious despair.
There is no way I am leaving this bus. Entering that sun? Waiting for the “next turn” bus to be full???
No, no way. No motherfucking way. I do not care what numbers my bank is reporting to me. I do not motherfucking care.
I turned to the guy sitting next to me, and I asked him for assistance. No time.
We just left Obalende.
About ten minutes into the journey, I realize this is the fastest I have ever been transported across the Lagos Third Mainland Bridge.
There is like nobody on the road. Traffic congestion right now, is a non-sequitur.
Just the occasional group of random guys with their arbitrary roadblocks and their unconstitutional financial demands.
On the way, we see some soldiers driving along the road in their pickup trucks, scaring away the illegitimate roadblock guys.
At some point the driver stops giving the roadblock guys money, and begins threatening them with soldiers coming from behind.
Soldier dey come, Soldier dey come!!!
They would be too startled with apprehension to demand money before the bus breezed past.
In a surreally short amount of time, we are at the Ikeja Secretariat.
I alight.
Shoprite Bus Stop.
There are a number of law enforcement officers up ahead. They are beating up some guy.
I come to a halt and turn into a corner by the left, while I take some time to properly assess the situation. I’m not interested in being a victim of physical assault this morning.
As I stand there- watching and pondering the situation, I see a guy walking up to the main road. He looks like he’s coming from a jog.
His breathing is moderately heavy, and his shiny sportswear shirt is somewhat wet with sweat. He is marching towards the road, exuding a convincing aura of adrenaline-enhanced confidence.
Ah. Look at his guy. Look at this guy walking like there’s absolutely nothing in the world which can constitute a respectable problem for him.
Ah. Ah, I think I need to move closer to this guy.
I walk towards him and interject his march with a question. We exchange a few sentences. I latch onto his momentum, and join his march.
There’s another guy close-by. He joins the procession as we proceed into the main road, and towards the soldiers.
I’m staring at the back of the jogger guy. His back looks so broad and muscular and entrancing. He is swaggering towards the officers ahead with unquestioned confidence. I wonder if this is sort of remarkable formidableness and assuredness that women experience in men, and become completely disoriented and dumbfounded.
Like, I’m a guy and I’m very inspired and impressed by the sweaty jogger guy and his unreal confidence. I wonder what a woman would feel, especially given the additional sexual angle to it in that case.
We are at the roadblock.
The soldiers begin to accost us.
WHERE UNA DEY GO???
The jogger guy responds immediately with this reassuring dissatisfaction that convinces one of the legitimacy of his position:
I dey go my house. All these protesters just dey cause trouble for this our road.
My mind is very blown.
Our road. “Our”. Like, OUR, road.
Jesus. Jesus Christ. This guy owns he road. I am walking with the guy who OWNS the road. Okay o. Okay Sir. Okay Sir, let’s go.
I am immensely impressed. Before the soldiers can come up with more questions, we’re past the roadblock.
We keep moving. At some point we head in different directions. The owner of the road heads in what I believe is the direction of the place where he lives.
I am heading towards Computer Village.
A building by the left catches my attention. The outfit on the ground floor says “24 hour Cafe”.
I am surprised and interested. I wonder what a 24 hour cafe in Lagos will be like. I make a mental note to stop by some time.
Computer Village is up ahead. I’m kinda tired. Legs hurt. I keep moving.
Image: Somewhere in Lagos.
This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.
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