By Adekunle Adekoya
Fear is the key that unlocks peoples'
pockets, so said Poke Toholo, a character in James Hadley Chase's “Want to Stay
Alive?”
Sardonically, this was what came to mind
a few minutes after the gate was shut behind me on arriving home late last
night. After resting the paper, we left Vanguard, each by his route to his
home. From Apapa, the destinations were as far as they were varied. Ahoyaya,
Igbo-Elerin, Michael Otedola Estate, Arepo, Dopemu, Alagbado, Oshodi, Ikeja,
Ikotun-Egbe, Igando — we all raced forth.
My route usually is through Okota to
Oke-Afa, past Jakande Housing Estate, Isolo, through Ejigbo, Egbe, past
Synagogue Church, Igando Road, and thence to Egan, itself an outlier of Ikotun.
Just after Okota, apprehension started welling in me; bonfires made from
disused tyres lit up the dark night at every junction. Over the weekend,
there'd been palpable anxiety as reports of atrocities being perpetrated by
riotous gangs permeated the public space, worsened by the anticipated extension
of the lock-down. I drove on; it was past 11pm when I got to Ikotun, and
continued on my route towards Egan through Igando Road. Then the nightmare
began.
At Igando Road junction, there was a
crowd of males whose ages ranged from 12-35, give or take. Bonfires were
raging; they stopped every motorist and demanded money before passage. They
also used sticks and fists to pound the bodies of the vehicles.
I showed them my ID card. “I'm a
reporter,” I said, pleading to be allowed to pass.
“Reporter?” asked a scruffy fellow, in
an equally scruffy voice. “Na dat one we go chop? Oun da?”
The last two words is a demand for
money. I reached into my pocket and made an offer.
“Owo mi ko l'eleyi (this is not my
money),” the fellow said (meaning my offer was too small). I added another
note.
“Hey, e je o koja, reporter ni.” (Let
him pass, he's a reporter).
I drove past. At the next bus stop, I
dropped my colleagues, and was left alone to continue the homeward journey;
little knowing my ordeal had just begun.
At College Bus Stop, still on Igando
Road, opposite Onimaba Estate gate, another gang was in business, with the
by-now-familiar bonfires. From their checkpoint, a long line of vehicles backed
up; I joined the queue. This particular gang was so mean in searching each
vehicle that it took the boys more than one hour to get to me. In my helpless
state, I already had money out, and as I anticipated, it was rejected for being
too small. I added more, and was allowed to pass. In all of these, there was no
sign of any security organization.
The third phase of the ordeal began when
I got to Ishuti Road Junction. Again, I showed my ID card, and the first gang
there was pleasantly civil. “He's a reporter, leave him.” The next gang wasn't.
“Oun da?”, a fellow no older than a JS3
student screamed at me. Another pounded my car with his palm; the sound
reverberated into the night, just as another landed a stick on yet another part
of the car.
“E joo, e ma se bayi,”I pleaded, and
made an offer. Again, it was refused, and I added more. This time it was
accepted.
“Je o maa lo,” the apparent ringleader,
who sat in a shadowy shop recess further from the spot, ordered. I drove on,
made two more turns, and got to my street. My wife and children, hearing the
car's signature horn, trooped out to open the gate for me, shouting “Thank God”
endlessly. I thanked them, and led them in, and that was when James Hadley
Chase's “Want to State Alive?” resurfaced from the recesses of my memory. By
the time I got home, it had cost me N11,000 to get through the gangs and
bonfires.
All these in the Federal Republic of
Nigeria, in the 20th year of the 21st Century.
Adekunle
Adekoya, Deputy Editor of Vanguard Newspaper
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