AMID SECRETS - CHAPTER 2
*Maduka’s POV*
My head feels like a local grinding stone upon which a smaller one is being struck in a slow rhythm, crushing wh@??ver vegetable that is unfortunate enough to be caught in between. Sweat trickles down my forehead, runs in a small stream down my spinal column, and soaks the underarms of my carefully ironed white shirt.
My car is parked by the side of the road at Ojuelegba, the back side bashed. On the ground in front of me, lying face down and pleading are a Danfo driver and his conductor.
Around us, people go about their own businesses, a few of them stopping to observe the scene that probably occurs like ten times a day on this particular Ikorodu road. Horns blare, insults are thrown, people’s generations past and those to come are cursed.
Lagos won’t stop for you even if you’re dying,I think with a humorless smile.
“Ejo, e mabinusaa,Please, don’t be angry sir. (Please, don’t be angry sir)”. they repeat in loud voices, calling my attention and making me wish I could just evaporate from this place, and somehow, magically, everything would fix itself.
How am I supposed to keep calm when my car is a mess? Who the hell does that?
Some of the passengers have alighted from the yellow bus and are begging me.
“Saa, abeg leave am. Forgive am,”
“Am I Jesus Christ?” I demanded, trying to keep my fury in check.
Danfo drivers are the worst drivers ever to grace this planet. The way they drive, it’s like watching a sick mixture of Grand Theft Auto and Fast and Furious in real life and you’d think they have nine lives each. Once they get into trouble, they plead like their lives are in danger. They lie on the ground, kiss your feet, tell you about the new baby their wife just had and how they can’t cater for it along with the other seven children. Sometimes they strip down to their underwear to show their helplessness. Like these fools now, they are dressed in boxers only, looking up at me with imploring expressions. But let them go, they will do it all over again to another unsuspecting driver.
“Saa,ejo. Ejo,ejooo!” (Sir, please!)
Already, police officers are surrounding the bus, ordering the remaining passengers to get off.
“Take them to the station,” I tell the officers.
“Aaah,eleyiwicked,” one of the passengers says loudly. He is wicked.
“If na your motor, you gogreeam?” I yell back. (If it was your car,wouldyou free him?)
The officers spring to action and the bus driver lets out a cry.
I’m not one to take rubbish, especially when I’m right. I would tolerate a dent or a scratch, but this? No way.
“Owomidaa?” (Where is my money?) the passengers start to yell, clustering around the driver and conductor.
“Why una no leave the change for am?” (Why didn’t you leave the change for him?) I mock.
Some of them throw me looks and I laugh sardonically, marvelling at human nature. Here they were, begging me to forgive someone who had nearly destroyed my brand new car. Now they can’t leave money below fifty Naira for him, considering the amount of money I am about to squeeze out of this man!
At the station, I make myself comfortable while the two men are locked up in a cell. Calling a mechanic that my friend had recommended, I place the call on loud speaker so everyone nearby can hear.
“Good afternoon sir,” the mechanic greeted.
“Good afternoon. How much do you take to panel beat cars?”
“From thirty thousand Naira up, sir.”
“Ori iya mi oo,” cries the bus driver. (My mother’s head.)
The conductor is fast asleep, unbothered because he had nothing to do with the bus. He wasn’t the one driving.
“Half of the back of my car is crushed.”
“Sir, you fit use forty-k do am,” says the mechanic. “You wan make I show for your side check am?”
“Yes, please.” I directed him and in thirty minutes, he arrived. He is a slightly built, lanky man with skin darkened from spending countless hours in the sun. After assessing the car, he declares that I need forty thousand for repairs.
Oh, Lord. In these trying times, forty thousand is like a million Naira.
“Did you hear that?” I asked the bus driver.
“Sir, abeg. I take God beg you-”
“Don’t even put God in this! Give me forty thousand Naira or I’ll leave you here to rot.”
“How I wan take find forty-k?”
“You for dey reason dat one wen u dey drive anyhow.”
I can afford to fix my car, but I need to teach this man a lesson he will never forget. I have missed my meeting because of him, and my day has been made useless as well. No, he can’t go scot-free.
Eventually, the officers allow him to make a call. In a distressed voice, he calls someone and gives instructions to check inside a wooden box underneath his bed, open the second wooden box inside it, unwrap the red cloth, open the envelope, take out his ATM card, go to the bank, and withdraw the remaining twenty-five thousand Naira in his account.
I can tell it’s all he has, and I feel a pang of guilt. When the messenger arrives an hour later and hands him the money, the driver looks at me with sorrowful eyes. I snatch the money from him, keeping my face in a frown.
“Officers, hold him here till he brings the remaining fifteen thousand Naira,” I say.
“But oga I no do anything,” the conductor finally pipes up, now awake.
“Why didn’t you tell him to stop?” I questioned.
The man silent.
The driver begins to sob, and I suddenly wonder what kind of hardship he is going through.
Nigeria is as difficult as it can be right now, with the removal of fuel subsidy, devaluation of the Naira, tomato scarcity and many others. Where does this man live? Can he cater for his family? A man tries to be tough, but as muscular and hard-looking as this one is, his tears tell me another story. This is someone who is going through a lot.
“Listen to me and listen good,” I say, pointing at the man.
He looks up at me.
“I will let you go. But you will have to buy cold drinks for all these officers.”
He prostrates on the floor, dragging his conductor with him.
“Thank you, sir,” he repeated.
Finally, I gave the four officers present a thousand Naira each from the money, then hand over the remaining twenty-one thousand Naira to the bus driver. He wipes his tears and tries to stop his sobs.
“God bless you, sir. Oluwa bless you. Bad thing no go do you, I swear.”
I leave the station, pleased that I have taught the man a lesson.
Maybe he won’t drive recklessly for this week, I muse.
When I got home via taxi, my parents were seated in the parlor, watching The Promise on Zee World.
Why is Zee World taking Nigeria by storm? And how did it come to overshadow TeleMundo? What kind of sorcery does it possess to make my father, a die hard football fan so interested in it?
“Bani is such a mugu,” I hear Mum hiss in annoyance.
“But why can’t this Pia leave them alone, for chrissakes?” Dad asked rhetorically.
I live on my own at Alausa, but my parents live at Ajao Estate, Anthony Village and since its closer to Ojuelegba, I decided to drop by.
They are a content, happy couple in their sixties, both with greying hair and spectacles resting on the bridge of their noses. In their forties, they adopted me at age ten from an orphanage in Owerri because they felt the number of children they had wasn’t enough. Their children were either in the university or boarding school, and they needed a child who wouldn’t create a mess while also keeping them on their toes.
I’ve grown to love this family fiercely and I owe everything I am and will ever be to them. If I could deify my parents, I wouldn’t hesitate.
“Good afternoon Mum and Dad,” I greeted, moving to the couch. I let my mother kiss me, and my father pats my back.
“Kaka, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Mum questions.
“My car got bashed. It’s at the mechanic’s.”
Instantly, my mother looks more closely at me, inspecting for marks and bruises.
“I’m fine.”
“How did it happen?” Dad asked.
I recount my ordeal to them.
“Stupid Danfo drivers,” Dad fumes.
“There’s jollof and fried plantain in the kitchen,” says Mum with a knowing smile.
She knows I have a weakness for jollof rice and fried plantain, or dodo as it’s popularly called in Western Nigeria.
Mum waits for me to go halfway through my rice before saying, “I’m waiting for you to bring a girl home,” with a frown on her face.
I pause with the spoonful of rice in front of my mouth. Beside her, Dad was grinning.
“In due time, Mum,” I promised. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“Don’t hurry but don’t be slow, either.”
“But bringing a girl home doesn’t guarantee that I’ll marry her,” I point out.
“But it shows seriousness. Your father says I was the tenth girl he took home, and by then his parents were tired and had given up on him. They were resigned.”
I laugh. Dad’s sense of humour has zero competition.
“Jide and I are going out tonight, so I’ll go over to my place afterwards. Don’t wait for me.”
I’m desperately trying to dodge this conversation. After rushing through my meal, I gulp down some water and wash my cutlery. While in the kitchen I hear Dad say to Mum, “You see what you’ve caused? You scared the poor boy away.”
“Leave me, Daniel. I’m just a worried mother.”
Saying a hasty goodbye, I make to leave the house. The last thing I hear from Dad is, “It’s not like your sperm cells begin to die at twenty-seven.”
‘Abeg oo, Daddy help me tell Mummy’, I think with a laugh.
.
.