2014 / 19 July

On My Mysterious Journey To Ikeja


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This is my 140 post on this blog.

Kinda like reminds me of the 140boys we had back then in secondary school. Or the 140 twitter character limit… 
Sorry Guys. I thought if I introduced this post with that boring fact, it will take the minds of my loyal 105479 page viewers off the fact that it’s been over THREE MONTHS I was last here :O!!!
Talking about three months..
DO YOU KNOW that by the end of the third month of pregnancy, the baby is fully formed.  
  “It” now possess arms, hands, fingers, feet, and toes and can even begin to open and close its fists and mouth.
**Okay I digress. 
        We are not here to talk about the 140 boys or twitter and its 140 character limit or how a baby develops.
FOR FUCK SAKE, JUST ENJOY THE STORY!
********************************************
“Chei! If I had my way eh, I for press one hot konk into the head of the driver wey resemble opioro mango”. 
He was sitting right in front of me, playing with his horn like the keys of a piano. If ant pass, my guy go jam finger for horn; if lizard pass, my guy go jam finger for horn.
My head was steadily inflating like a hot-air balloon. I was dying to snap at the driver and tell him, “Oga, if play play dey hungry you, you better go back to nursery school”, but I couldn’t. 
My fellow passengers were looking ever so calm and unperturbed, like the docile horses on Lagos’ beaches. 
If I let loose I would look like a lunatic.
 So with great effort, my teeth clamped down on my rattling tongue, giving it no moment of respite so that it couldn’t spit venom into the driver’s ear.
The potent voice of the late Afrobeat King, Fela, leapt out of the car speakers:
“suffer suffer for world – amen!
Enjoy for heaven – amen”
Since I couldn’t do anything about my anger, I decided to lose myself in the music. That way I could prise my mind off the shrilly horn, and the driver’s gravelly voice belting along to the music.
The rest of the journey passed in a haze, but I distinctly remember that the song water e no get enemy was half-way through when the driver pulled to the curb and announced we had reached our destination, Ketu.
‘What a relief’ I sighed to myself. Did I say relief? Hehehe. I laugh because my sigh was premature; the ‘best’ was yet to come.
‘Funmi lowo jo!’
The agbaro boys were at it again. They closed in on our bus like a colony of ants closing in on their prey.
Their leader, a dark, scar-faced man with humongous muscles was glaring down at the driver, hand held out.‘Oya oya, bring the money. No waste my time.’
The driver turned around slowly to look at his aggressor. ‘Do you know who you are talking to?’ he spoke in an impeccable, English accent.
The agbaro boy staggered back. His voice was far from steady when he bragged,‘You think say I dey fear you?’
The driver’s head snapped back to the road. ‘Get your bloody hands off my bus,’ he commanded in a cool, menacing tone.
The agbaro’s arms fell limply to his side. Then suddenly he realised his boys were staring at him and he needed to save face. 
So he broke into a histrionic protest.‘You think say I dey fear you because you carry beard like Osama? No be Lagos we dey? I go conquer you!! I go-’
We didn’t hang around to hear the rest of his sentence, the driver slammed his foot on the accelerator and we bolted onto the highway like a torpedo.
We whizzed past cars and buildings at such a dizzying speed that I could feel the akara I ate that morning rising up my chest.
‘James Bond, slow down,’ one of the more daring passengers murmured.
James Bond was hard of hearing. He swung from one lane to the other, tailing cars and sniffing the derrieres of heavy duty vehicles. 
I shut my eyes trying not to imagine what would happen if we rammed into the mammoth vehicles he was currently tailing. I wanted adventure, and here it was in its crudest form.
I opened my eyes just in time to witness the driver tearing past the red traffic lights as the Lastma officials alias
 ‘please give me the slightest reason to jump into your car and seize your keys’ watched on, passively. 
The passengers burst into laughter. They had gotten past the discomfort and were now beginning to enjoy the ride with Mr Bond.
The joy ride ground to a halt when we hit a spot of traffic at Victoria Island. Mr Bond scratched his head and fidgeted impatiently. 
‘This traffic is pissing me off,’ he babbled to himself. He let out a lingering hiss then cut off the engine. 
At that moment an unfortunate MOPOL man, basking in his khaki-inspired bravado, banged on our bus. 
‘WHERE THIS BUS DEY GO?’ he bellowed arrogantly.
Mr Bond did not indulge him with the slightest bit of attention. 
That riled the MOPOL man. ‘DRIVER I SAID-‘ his tongue lost its strength the minute he got a full frontal view of the driver. He took to his heels. 
We the passengers enjoyed a good laugh. Our driver was not only James Bond, he was also Mr Invincible.
The traffic soon began to slither along and Mr Bond resumed his maneouvering tactics. He edged cars out of the road, climbed pavements and slammed the pedal as if we had spare lives in our pockets. 
We were fairly confident that we would reach Ikeja in one piece, but things took a turn for the worse when we got to Maryland. That was where nemesis caught up with Mr Bond.
“Waw waw waw waw”
Loud wails of sirens flooded the air. Right behind us a convoy of official cars was racing down the road at top speed, edging out cars to the kerb.
Our driver, James Bond, sat put, his face hardset.
‘Driver, abeg give dem chance,’ one of the passengers implored.
“Waw waw waw waw waw”
The convoy was right behind us.
A koboko cracked on our roof. ‘My friend, move this car!’
A bunch of MOPOL bearing AK47s pulled up parallel to our bus in a Toyota Hilux van. 
Two policemen jumped down and ran towards our driver.
I nearly passed hot stool in my jeans.
‘You dey mad? Move this your zinc before I tear your head!’ one of the policemen roared at our placid driver.
For the first time a flash of emotions surfaced in James Bond’s eyes. He eyed the policemen as if he was a piece of rag. 
‘I’d rather die and go to hell than move this bus,’ he spat at him.
The MOPOL was in disbelief. ‘Na me you dey talk to?! God punish you!’ 
The MOPOL swung the driver’s door open and dragged him onto the road in a rage.
‘E’ma binu sir,’ one of the passengers began to plead.
‘Shut your dirty mouth!’ another MOPOL man cut her short.
We watched in horror as the MOPOL rammed his heavy leather boot into the driver’s chest repeatedly, while the other policemen heaved our car to the side of the road.
I needed to get away. ‘Open the door!’ I yelled at the boy seated next to it.
Now our driver was on his knees looking dazed, but he didn’t put up a resistance or plead. The MOPOL was now unleashing the full vent of his rage on the driver – whipping, kicking, slapping and blowing.
Suddenly a stream of blood started flowing – out of the crown of James Bond’s head, then his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, then ears.
We, the passengers, were now out of the bus, and looked on in horror. The MOPOL too was frozen like a pillar of salt.
Bond clutched the silver chain around his neck then fell over abruptly like a log of wood.
I had to get away. I couldn’t let my curiosity get the best of me. My wobbly legs hurried towards the bridge.
‘Jesuuuuus!’ a voice screamed.
I didn’t want to look back. But I just had to one more time; James Bond must be – oh.my.God.
There was no James Bond. What I saw was a brownish-green lizard-like head. 
My mind reeled. That could not be James Bond. 
The 29-foot anaconda was slowly ingesting the head of the MOPOL that had been brutalising James Bond a while ago. 
The MOPOL’s body flailed and kicked wildly.
I almost fainted.
With the last strength in me, I spun around and dashed towards the bridge, my mind suspended in a vacuum of disbelief.
I heard a conductor shouting a destination, and then found myself on a bus.
It took several minutes for me to regain my spirit, and several more to notice that the bus driver had only one arm. But that was the least of my worries. I bowed my head muttered a quick prayer. 
‘Dear father, let me get home in once piece.’
And then there was a sharp and painful tap on my back. Followed by a baritone voice saying.
“Ogbeni! Na Last bus stop be this where you dey go?”
OMG! It was all a dream. I was at Ikeja!, no blood!, no MOPOL! and no Anaconda!.
I took a deep breath looked at the guy smiled at him and walked away…
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