How to be a Nigerian — a Tale of a Typical Day in the Lives of Two Nigerian
By Bode Penrose Okedayo
"The witches and wizards are coming again in broad daylight o-o!" shouted Sally, who was in her adolescence.
Sally was a seller of pepper, tomatoes, and onions. She portioned them out into transparent polythene bags and loaded them onto a tray. She was wearing a short, dirty mini-skirt that was generously transparent, revealing the outline of her amateur underwear. Her punk hairstyle was compressed and dusty from carrying the load on her head all day, and the pretty path made through it had lost its clarity so that it now looked like an abandoned farm road in the aftermath of a powerful storm.
Upon hearing Sally's frightening warning, other street sellers started hastily collecting their wares, which were their livelihood. Everyone was on high alert, moving their goods to a safer location away from the walkway slabs as two tall, rugged agberos approached. Anyone caught "breaking the law" would end up paying a hefty fine.
Mama Abacha stood there, confused. She needed to sell her drinks before the block of ice she used to keep them chilled melted away. The sun was already blazing, and she hadn't found a good spot to sell yet. When she heard Sally's warning, she was holding some bottles of drinks in her hand. Her bowl, the source of the drinks, was safely tucked away in a corner because she had a premonition that the agberos were nearby. As she got older, unlike Sally and her agemates, she found it increasingly difficult to fly around at every alarm.
Through experience, Mama Abacha had learned to be cautious of the "witches and wizards" who enforced the extralegal fines on poor Benin husslers who worked hard for their daily bread. There was a day when she placed her bowl on her head and hawked along the road in the traffic at the Oba Market frontier and Central Motor Park. Unfortunately, she was arrested by one of the "witches and wizards" and taken straight to their office, which was an untidy space under a tree in a corner of a high-rise commercial building.
She stood before them as they accused her of trespassing and constituting a street nuisance. Her offence was spelled out as "hawking on prohibited space," and for that, she was fined two thousand naira. Despite her tears and explanations that the sum was more than her daily profit, she was not spared.
"Iye, you were well aware that hawking where you were caught is prohibited," explained the judge with his intriguing Edo accent. "You have to pay the fine immediately, which is only because of our respect and sympathy for your age, or you can follow us to our main office."
She protested, "Why are we Nigerians so wicked to one another and yet blame the president for all our problems? How do you expect an old woman like me to make ends meet this way? When I place my goods on the gutter top, your men chase me. When I enter the park to sell from my own head, they arrest me and demand payment, as if it were their mother's head. Don't you have mothers or aged people in your family? You must be bastards to treat an old, innocent woman old enough to be your mother like this."
Among them were two stone-faced women, one in uniform and the other in plain black clothes. The one in uniform, who was quite fat and almost spherical in her tight trousers, spoke up.
She said, banging the table to almost every word, "Iye, you are not a stranger in Benin City. You know the traffic rules under Governor Obaseki's government. Please don't waste our time. If you want to go to our main office, let's go. Mind you, once this matter gets there, you will be charged in court, and you could end up in prison."
At the mention of court and prison, Mama Abacha's color changed from yellow to red.
"You can do whatever you like to me here in your coven. I know you guys are the king of kings and lord of lords of Ring Road and Oba Market environs."
She loosened her worn-out wrapper, which she wrapped around her flowing gown, and then untied its knotted end. From there, she produced all she had and handed it over to them.
"Take my sweat and die eating it o-o."
That was all the money she had made for the day, which was part of her capital, and dusk was fast approaching. After calling them names and cursing them in the name of her paternal deity, she vowed she would strip naked at night and curse them with her breasts and private parts, and then walked away to find somewhere else to sell. However, those other places where she could sell undisturbed had far less patronage compared to the prohibited areas of Ring Road and its business environments.
It was because of such embarrassing experiences in the past that she had grown very cautious about displaying her wares. As the agberos became greedier and more callous, she learned to be more discreet and elusive. As the saying goes, when a cunning man dies, a cunning man buries him. And that was how to survive in Nigeria. She must keep playing the game until she can afford a store on the high-patronage sites.
One of the two agberos whom Sally sighted arrived with a scowl on his face, while his partner stood a bit away and observed. He held a dry stick, reminiscent of Fulani herdsmen who, at that time, had taken over the Benin forests, farmlands, and streets in search of grass to feed their teaming cattle. His trousers were sagging, revealing his dirty boxer shorts. His armpits hadn't been shaved in what seemed like three decades, and the same applied to his teeth, which were richly colored from chewing kola nuts, smoking all sorts of substances, and drinking too much low-quality liquor.
Sally sighed mischievously. "He-he-he! Many are mad, but few are roaming."
The other women burst into laughter, marvelling at Sally's sharp tongue.
As the agbero scanned the area, he searched for someone to target. Failing to find anyone in the prohibited zone, he declared hastily, "Let everybody behave themselves today o-o. Later, you will accuse me of being wicked. If you respect yourself, I respect you."
"Cursed fool! Ozua!" Sally blurted out and hissed annoyingly.
He pointed his stick at her and retorted, "Who is this small rat talking back to me? Am I your equal? Abi you wan collect?"
As he advanced towards her, Sally quickly moved behind Mama Abacha and taunted him from there, sticking out her tongue and playfully wiggling her small, tight backside in his direction.
He laughed. "See small nyash de shake o-o! Ahawo de your eye sha. Carry on na-a."
Another woman came to Sally's defense, saying, "Leave her alone jo-or. Ashawo beta pass tif-tif na-a. Una wey be tif. Money-sucking witches and wizards!"
The disappointed agbero walked away, unable to find whom to indict. His concern now was that he might not meet his target. His job entailed arresting a certain number of people each day, as that determined his commission and daily income.
Day in and day out, they patrolled the bustling areas of the city, bus stops, and markets where street vendors, motorcycle riders, taxi drivers, and bus drivers converged and dispersed. Their role was to profit from the profit of others, like vultures waiting for an animal to die before swooping in. When there were no easy targets to catch, they would create new laws without government backing and impose them on the innocent. Someone would inevitably fall into their trap, whether it was a bus driver, a motorcycle rider, a street hawker, or a pedestrian. And all they wanted was a bribe, which they would share among themselves, no matter how meagre each person's share was, like children dividing a piece of meat with their teeth among themselves.
As the agbero officer walked away, empty-handed and sad, pondering how to please his boss for the day, he failed to notice a loose slab covering a gutter. Oblivious to the danger, he stepped on it and tumbled into the very gutter he had used for years as a means of extortion.
The gutter was deep, filled with stagnant water, muddy underneath, and littered with plastic cans and bags afloat. His eyes widened in disbelief as he struggled to regain his balance, desperately reaching out for any support he could find within the filthy water. Before he could find his footing, he had swallowed a substantial amount of the dirty water, and his head was covered in a mixture of rubbish.
Sally clapped her hands in delight and began to dance shaku shaku. Mama Abacha simply stood there, laughing. For the past six weeks, she hadn't managed a smile. She wouldn't let this golden opportunity for a cheap laugh slip away, especially when it came at the most frustrating moment of her life and at the expense of one of the money-sucking witches and wizards who preyed on her livelihood.
While some passersby came to his rescue, one of the hawkers protested, "Leave him in the gutter. That's where he belongs. He said we shouldn't sell on top of the gutter. Let him have it as his bedroom."
All of them supported her, insisting that he should be left to drown and die because he was a wizard, his wife a witch, and his children bastards. While the onlookers who just walked into the scene and were unaware of his crime felt pity for him, the traders had just witnessed their heart's desire being fulfilled.
When he was pulled out, he sustained injuries all over his body. He smelled like a corpse rejected by both the earth and the spirit world. The mud clung to his body as if it had always been a part of him. His once-confident posture had been replaced by a hunched and defeated stance. His face, once stern and domineering, was contorted with embarrassment. His wet clothes clung to his body, covered in decades-old grime. Drops of dirty water dripped from them, leaving muddy trails behind him as he got up from where he sat to recuperate and walked away.
Much later, when the amusement still lingered in the mouths of the sellers, Mama Abacha who had enjoyed a better mood, walked over to the corner where she had kept her wares. The ice had melted. It was already 4 p.m., and she hadn't sold enough to make the day and its amusement worthwhile. She sighed and voiced her frustration aloud, making sure her fellow vendors could hear her. "Where will I get the money to pay the NEPA bill today?"
With a look of hope and empathy, Sally looked at her and said, "Nor worry, Iye. God nor go shame us."
The street hawkers in unison replied, "Ise!"
***
Abacha stepped off the keke, a three-wheeled vehicle, which he took from Lagbado where he lived. He paid his fare of two hundred naira from the one thousand two hundred naira his mother gave him and confidently walked towards the bus stop, ready to catch a bus heading to Alausa.
However, as he reached into his pocket to pay the bus driver upon arrival, he realized with dismay that his money was missing. Unknown to him, it had been stolen during his keke ride. The bus conductor and driver, skeptical of his claim, accused him of trying to evade payment. In a fit of rage, they seized him, one grabbing his belt while the other held onto his collar. After subjecting him to a merciless beating, they snatched his shoes and tie before finally releasing him.
Determined to secure the job opportunity, Abacha pressed on, trekking the remaining distance barefoot to the interview site instead of taking a bike. Upon arrival at the hall, he discovered that he was late and was instructed to wait for the next batch of interviews. However, to his dismay, the second set of interviews never took place, leaving him feeling frustrated and deceived.
While waiting, exhaustion overcame Abacha, and he drifted off to sleep. Upon waking up, he frantically searched for the folder containing his credentials and phone, only to realize it had been stolen. He suspected a hungry young boy who had been loitering nearby, even begging for money from him earlier. The boy's desperate situation had led him to pilfer Abacha's belongings, perhaps in hopes of selling them for a meal.
Overwhelmed and without any options, Abacha felt hopeless. He lacked the means to return home, call for help, or even present the necessary credentials for the job. As he despondently embarked on the journey home, he knew it would take him at least two hours on foot, considering that the bus ride had taken only thirty minutes.
The most painful part about not getting the job was that he needed the job to get money to rent a store for his mother in Oba Market. Renting the shop, a space scarcely wider than four feet by four feet, would demand a fortune from her pocket. The landlord, unyielding in their demands, insisted on a daunting upfront payment of six months' rent. And if she was unable to comply, someone else would seize the opportunity and claim it. The weight of the exorbitant sum loomed over her like a formidable barrier, threatening to dash her dreams of escaping the streets and leaving behind the burden of hawking. The hope of lifting this financial burden off her and fulfilling her entrepreneurial aspirations rested solely on him.
When Abacha finally arrived home, it was already fifteen minutes past 7 p.m. He collapsed onto the old and torn sofa, which was the only piece of furniture in the house, defeated and unable to find the words to explain his ordeal. Tears streamed down his face, and his sympathetic mother joined him in his sorrow. She had just returned from hawking minerals all day with nothing much to show for her efforts.
The following day, Ani visited Abacha and inquired about the interview. Abacha responded bitterly, lamenting the absence of an interview and the loss of his phone and credentials. He voiced his disillusionment, stating that Nigerians were wicked and lacked compassion for one another.
Ani laughed, offering a different perspective. "I hope you have learned your lesson now," he remarked.
Just a week ago, they had a heated argument during which Abacha stubbornly defended the act of engaging in fraudulent activities, such as Yahoo-Yahoo, or keeping money that had fallen from someone else's pocket instead of making an effort to find the owner and return it.
Opening his bag, Ani retrieved a 1,000-naira bill and the beloved folder. He handed them to Abacha, saying, "Take these. Not all Nigerians are wicked. There are still a few good ones like me."
Abacha, bewildered and trying to make sense of it all, exclaimed, "That must be a magic bag you're holding!"
Ani delved into his bag once more. "Take this. It's your employment letter. It was all staged. You're expected to resume next Monday, allowing you a week to recuperate from the beating, long trek, and emotional strain I caused you."
Abacha felt a sense of disbelief and confusion engulfing him. How could this turn of events be possible? Tears streamed down his face, reflecting his overwhelming emotions. His mother ran up to him and jumped upon him excitedly. His mother, who had been listening to the conversation from the other room, came out. She embraced Ani and then her son while offering a prayer in Bini.
Then she said, "Thank you, my son. Finally, I can afford to rent a shop in Oba Market. No more roaming around the streets with a load on my head. No more a victim of witch-hunting."
Recognizing Abacha's distress, Ani extended an explanation.
"Remember, I was the one who provided you with the interview information. The company happens to be owned by my elder brother, and I merely wanted you to experience a glimpse of the daily struggles Nigerians face on the streets while trying to earn a livelihood. This is how to be a Nigerian."
