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There is creativity in
unifying our pains; our memories. I have always found collective reminiscences
quite interesting. It is in them you realize that there is nothing as the
monopoly of experiences; nothing is personal. Our experiences are all unified
as humanity is. We only need to share them and hear others’ stories to know
that.
In this first series of a
multi-guest post, enjoy the humourous encounters of the #LagosTraffic. However,
the humour in this multi-written post does not smudge the realities in them.
Read them and you would see your stories being told. Remember, nothing is
personal. Your story is not. This is Lagos.
*****
©Adeola Opeyemi, Olisakwe Ukamaka Evelyn and Myne
Whitman
“Abeg, go return the car to your
Sugar Daddy if you no fit drive am joor!” a driver called out.
“Oloshi! O de lo ku s’ile father e” a
bus conductor shouted at a biker who was trying to wiggle his way out of the
endless ocean of cars, lorries, tricycles, motorcycles and busses that was the
norm on Apapa-Oshodi Expressway.
It was 7:30 pm and I couldn’t help but notice
that I had wasted four useful hours in the stand-still traffic. Sandwiched
between a woman who couldn’t weigh anything less than a hundred and thirty
kilograms and a confused man who had spent the first two hours preaching ‘End
time’ and the remaining hours staring at my cleavage.
“Lord!” I closed my eyes with a sigh and I
must have slept off when it happened. I heard the crashing sounds as a bus hit
my bus from behind and caused my bus to hit the small Nissan in front of it.
Murmuring and hissing, the passengers
started filing out of the bus and that was when I noticed. My purse, my wristwatch, my sister’s ring;
the one I had borrowed from her room without her permission. It was pure gold,
and I had worn it to impress my date. Everything was gone, vanished into thin
air.
“My purse!” I screamed but my voice
was drowned by the numerous voices throwing curses and abusive words at one another
as heads popped out of car windows and people gathered around the accident
scene.
One fine morning in December 2012,
Lagos paid back in her coin.
I was on my way to Debonair Bookstore
at Yaba. At Dopemu Roundabout, I stood under the bridge, waiting for a bus,
after I had failed to beat a good price with the taxis. Buses that rolled by
were either filled up or I wasn’t fast enough to get into one. I was shoved and
pushed, as we fought to get in. once, I was almost successful but was jostled
by the waist of a faster woman. And when the next bus came by, even before it
rolled to where I stood on edge like a sprinter, I raced to it, jumped on, but
met a tragedy: my handbag was stuck somewhere in between the frenzied bodies.
Someone screamed “mumu, commot for
road!” and before I could catch my breath, I was pulled by a force that left me
wobbling. My dress ripped, something bit into my side. I was falling, but was
caught by the deft hands of a man who said “pele” profusely.
My face burned. I patted down my
dress, thanked him. The strap of my dress was torn and my bra-strap stood out
on my right shoulder. I thought of cancelling the trip as another bus appeared,
but someone said “Sister, enter.” There was no rush. I climbed in, thanked
them. My eyes burned. A lady behind me said “let me hold that strap for you.”
She got out one of those safety pins.
Though the heat rose in seconds as we
sat like fishes in a can, I tried to understand this new Lagos. I would sit in
that bus for the next two hours, sweating and wiping with my handkerchief, as
Whizkid yelled “I love my baby” from the radio.
My latest experience of traffic in
Lagos was during my last visit in July/August 2012. I was staying at the family
house in Festac, and I had to meet some people for my book business in VI. Now
I know about the traffic situation, especially seeing that the expressway
between Festac and most parts of the city was under construction.
But before this time, I had always
made it to where I was going within 2 hours, no matter how horrible. On this
day, it was different. The car I was using was sandwiched between a rock and a
hard place, and I mean that almost literarily. We had a truck in front of us,
dishing out dirty grey and sometimes black fumes. Behind us was a Hummer Jeep,
it had a steel grill guarding its front. On both sides of us were long lines of
other cars, trailing forwards and backwards as far as the eye could see. The
driver debated routes, ones he should’ve taken, and others he shouldn’t have.
But those were like crying over spilt milk. We
were well and truly stuck. I wish I could tell you we were beamed away like the
Captain in the Star Trek Movie Franchises, or that the car suddenly developed
invisible wings and took off, like in Ayodele Arigbabu’s sci-fi tale, but those
would be lies. We managed to crawl slower than a snail in that jam for about 3
hours before we took the first exit we saw and made a bolt for it. The only
thing I can say is, “Thank God for mobile phones”. I called the people who were
expecting me and cancelled so they weren’t stuck waiting for me, like I was in
the traffic.
*****
Adeola Opeyemi hopes to publish a book someday. But for now,
she will read and write everything she can.
Olisakwe Ukamaka Evelyn is the author of the book: “Eyes of a Goddess”
Myne Whitman is the author of two books: “A Heart to Mend”
and “A Love Rekindled”
The series continues. Do you have any #LagosTraffic experience
you would like sharing with us? Please, do so in the comment box. Let’s know
your LagosTraffic pattern. *winks*
