I went into the printing press and I
have to tell you that it was the best press I have ever seen in my life. It was
beautiful. There were customers. There was help on the floor. One of the staff
approached me. He greeted, “Good evening sir.” Smile paraded his face.
“Good evening, young man,” I replied, beaming
with confidence. “Where is your boss? I came for my books. Are they ready?”
He shifted his weight to one leg. He smiled,
and threw out a question, “Are you Mr. Robert?”
“Yes!” I nodded affirmatively.
“My boss is not in the office but he left a
note for you!” He handed the letter over to me and moved to one side.
Without wasting time, I browsed through the
piece. In a couple of minutes, I was done. I let go a mighty heave, raised my
head and turned to the young man. “Thank you, I got the message. Where are the
books?”
“They are over there,” he pointed to a corner
in the press. “Please, follow me.” We walked to the corner where the books were
neatly packed.
I considered myself the happiest visitor.
My first book was finally printed and they are now within my reach. Beautiful
prints and my world has become an intriguing place. It was the best any first
time author could ever ask for.
I was starting a new life altogether. Every
turn had taught me a lesson. Richer in wisdom but I could not tell if my new
endeavor would turn out to be a gold mine that I could be mining forever. My
passion was great, taller than the pair of legs that carried me.
Some
of the valuable lessons will certainly stay with me forever. If I do not make
them applicable to my everyday life, I will be a loser and it might haunt me
for the rest of my life. We ought not to look back unless it is to derive
useful lessons from past errors and for profiting by dearly bought
experience.
The
process of getting the book published was turbulent. I met folks who challenged
me. They hit me hard and I almost gave up. It was obvious that it was up to me
if anything remarkable would happen. If I were not forthcoming with money as
quickly as possible, my job would be thrown out of the window. It is dangerous
to hang around the wrong people. I was a man brought to his knees by bandits
with guns pointed at him. They made me tough.
Most
people want their lives to keep improving, yet they value peace and stability
at the same time. People often forget that you cannot improve and still stay
the same. Growth means change. Change requires challenging the status
quo. I had stumbled on a path that I would be glad to see where it would
lead me.
The
printer had done his job. The books were glossy and neat. Not everyone will be
this meticulous given the short time he had to deliver. My life was a festival.
The young man joined me and we moved all of the books to my car outside. After
the excruciating exercise of arranging them in the boot of my car, I was
exhausted. I thanked the good soul and he walked back into the office.
I
dusted my clothes and got the car keys from my chest pocket. My rickety legs
carried me to the driver’s seat where I settled into the car. My eyes travelled
quickly about to see if everything was in place. The books had settled in
nicely in the boot, there was no stone left unturned, so I ignited the engine
and drove off.
It
is cruel to negotiate some roads. One could spend several hours and some do not
care if you die trying. It hurts. The loser is a meal to the bald
vultures.
Regularly
counting the cost of my valor has helped my poor soul to tread cautiously.
Smart people draw strength from their fall. The cost of finishing strong and
staying alive against all odds is not cheap.
I
drove through Lawanson road, an old narrow way leading off Itire. I had my
first sight of the Palace of the Itire Monarch. It was old-fashioned. It was
African with a fine red painted threshold. Here, the more things change, the
more they stay the same.
Every
day is a journey. The day we close our eyes upon the light of the world, the
journey ends. Most times, it is out of our hands to choose how we will embrace
the next world. There are forces that rule in the affair of men but fate would
place a man where he truly belongs.
Now
I am on a journey that looks like a formality. Sadly, in this ever-changing
world, there are challenges. A man must bend any circumstance to his
favor.
The
Lawanson road connects Oshodi-Apapa expressway. If you are in a hurry to
embrace silence, get out of misery, you are welcome to this part of the world.
You can never have enough of the misfortune on this highway. Trucks queue on
both sides, trapped in a constant battle to outsmart one another. There are
dilapidated buildings along the road and their numbers scary.
Most
of the buildings have no occupants because they are like a dead man bound by
horrible tradition that made it difficult for his people to commit him to
mother earth. The cost of maintenance and travelling back and forth from the
buildings would leave a deep hole in any pocket. The implications are damning
and grievous. Weight of which tied to a large man and tossed overboard a ship
into the sea would drown him.
No
matter how frugal, miserly or clever a man is, he can hardly recover all of the
loss of wasting his time. You cannot live out your life in happiness in a
poorly organized city. It is a tragedy to be born in such a place.
Wild
waves of the sea are casting up the foam of their own shame. Wandering stars,
for which the gloom of utter darkness reserved forever. Behold, the Lord comes
with ten thousand of his soldiers to execute judgment on all and to convict all
the ungodly of all their ungodliness.
All
the harsh things punished and the law exalted. When hope comes, it comes with
vengeance and the downtrodden are blessed. The tragedy of the time will not
hurt the laborers and workers who long night and day for change.
Every
culture has its own story. If we have to see a future, a vision of hope, we
have to do what is right. Sometimes the city feels sick as if there is a
plague. With every victory, their evil grows and darkness descends. When have
we allowed evil to be stronger than we have? She is elevated above her means
and then suffers the disappointment of being overlooked.
Sanity
is a very expensive commodity. Every single day, we risk raising weak people.
When weak people are more in number, they are powerful. If unhindered, they
could also raise for themselves a leader. You will think like the people with
whom you spend most of your time. The world will suffer under the feet of the
weak. Of noble blood or of weak conscience, we are in troubled times.
The
recklessness of men has made it tough. The gods of the underworld or the people
on the street, there is a drop of evil lurking in the dark. It does not require
an invitation to unleash terror. It is second nature to leave men humiliated.
Humanity is at her mercy. Man made of the dust has but a short time. The circle
hardly ends before the ruthless creatures overtake him. Disrupt his path and
cast shadows over him. Men who no one can predict have overtaken the world. It
is insanity. It is grave danger to exist alongside these creatures. The
brutish, the brutality and the brash which demeaning any unfortunate soul lives
within our walls. At what cost?
Hang
in there for too long, you are marked. If you slip, you are in the web,
groveling at the feet of the hungry spider. The creature twists and turns,
entangling her soul all the more. In the passage to demise, the countryside
where hell is a permanent resident, you are stung. The dreadful sting leaves
you with no chance of seeing tomorrow.
The
loser robbed of his future and the bald vultures gladly feed on the corpse. The
victim takes to the street an empty man, drifted off course or tossed about by
the cruel hands of the morning breeze. Life is tough. He tries to fill a
vacuum. How can the empty desire to fill a need? What does he have to offer? He
cannot fit in anywhere. He cannot see because he is a loser. The predators have
made him a loser. A piece of work created to fail and with no chance whatsoever
to see the sun.
The
prey does not even know he is a prey. He considers himself fortunate to eat
from the crumbs that fall from the table that is the size of an Olympic
stadium. The generations of men that love evil are on the rise. They have
reached the high heavens and only the heavens and his soldiers can cut them
off.
The
gridlock never dies. The dark nights never end. There is no charity on the
table. The cruel hands of fate snatched it. You cannot approach the finest
thieves with eyes closed. Every gambler knows that the secret to survival is to
know what to hold on and what to throw on the table. In truth, no table is
alone. It must bear the burden of men. The table is where many lives are
destroyed, destinies overturned and deals cancelled. The men who rule the world
have nearly everyone on their table. Some are powerful enough to decide who
lives or who dies. You wonder how people wake up in the morning and discover
that they have lost everything? Someone on the table pushed him to the abyss.
He is relieved of the misery and will never be the same again. It hurts but
that is the world. Not everyone owns the world. We all can exist here but very
few are in charge.
Evil
knows no race or color. In those buildings along Apapa-Oshodi expressway are
economic losses. Weakness is also borne out of nothingness. There is no point
to prove. You can never live out your life in happiness and freedom in a city
under siege. It is a tragedy to train up a child in this creepy kind of place.
If there is doom, it is because they allowed it. They are the doomsday. They
are the reason why the world is sad. The world is in the hands of few.
It
is easy to be a prophet of doom when the young men emerging from the college
after a hard five years were faced by a world indifferent to their enthusiasm
and bursting knowledge. Results that are never palatable. Those who lack
courage and a will to survive, leave the troubled world behind. Others take to
vices, which leaves them less human.
Trying
to live at all cost, they end up paying the price. The cost of breaking the law
far outweighs the price of obeying it. The horror stories of heartless and
vicious people cannot be undermined. Tales by young people who managed to
secure employment only make one hardened and embattled.
Some
were just little bits of dirt to be starved and worked into the ground by
heartless employers. There is never a day off. Some to wash the car, dig the
garden, feed the dogs, and push trucks and do family shopping for the boss.
Many stretched beyond limit. No human is carved out of stones.
Their
lords are grumblers, malcontents, following their own desires. They are
loud-mouthed boasters, showing favoritism to gain advantage. In the unfortunate
hour, there will be scoffers who follow their own ungodly passion. Good nature
leaves them annoyed because they are devoid of spirit. Good conscience is a
priceless of work regardless of who bears it. Sadly, it is the least of the
investment. They consider it a fallow ground that probably leaves you chasing
shadows.
They
are foul-mouthed sepulchers, destroying everything in their part. One crushes
the destiny of men under his feet. He leaves a belch in the air and the earth
trembles.
My
mind had wandered far away. Far too long that it was resident in the abyss. The
extent of which I had gone had little or nothing to do with what hands were
doing on the wheel. They were firmly on the steering as the day rolled away.
Darkness headed my way. You cannot cheat this beast. You cannot burn her
fingers on the furnace. You cannot evade her captivity. It is insanity. Our
estate in life whether rich or poor, high or low cannot make the natural
phenomenon quiver.
The
sun had done enough. It was retiring from her duty. Now it stood in the east
and smiled at the horizon. It was easy to see her exhaustion. It had been a
long day. Something we are fond. We see the old, raging beauty every single
day.
It
was fading very fast. The wandering clouds are pulling the sun from the eyes of
men into her estate. Her fiery darts had grown weak. The poor soul would be
back.
My
journey so far was smooth. I was yet to reach the nightmare at the other side,
Oshodi-Apapa expressway. There are visible signs of life wasted on that road.
You can hardly tell the difference between the highway and a garage. There are
more trucks packed on the road than vehicles moving and humans possibly to have
spent several weeks in their trucks are spotted either sleeping on the wheel or
are they under the truck taking a nap as if they might have been carved out of
stones.
The
helpless people are like ten or more sardines squeezed into a tiny container
and sealed. Imagine the stench that hung in the air each time one of the
creatures fart. They are far from redemption. And if it ever exists here, it is
bought with a price that I doubt the men in the trucks could afford. Life
cannot be this cruel and you expect healthy men to walk the street.
No
doubt, this is human failure. Man against man is so unjust. The highway needs a
healing. If the people in power do not begin the process of healing themselves,
there can never be a permanent solution to the problem.
To
reach the bridge at Cele bus stop from where I was in Surulere and then
navigate Mile 2 is insanity. It is a sour taste in the mouth, morbid and
damning. No matter how smart, my poor soul would be trapped in the web of
tragedy caused by many years of cluelessness. Cluelessness will not swallow me.
I turned the other way and drove straight down the road. If I get to the road
at the other side, I will face the way to the airport.
I
was alone in my car, a grey colour Mercedes Benz. Model 200, manufactured in
the year 1998. The car is elegant, automatic and durable. It has good engine,
tough gearbox, neat interiors, solid sound system and factory fitted air
conditioner. It was famous in time immemorial. There was a time such a car was
a luxury. It was a sign of opulence and strictly for men who had bottomless
pockets. Now overtaken by advancement and technology or reserved exclusively
for citizens in the pool of old age. Life is good but you cannot gain all in
her circle. No matter how hard you try, there are things that will always be
out of your reach. For instance, you cannot be wealthy and still be poor at the
same time. It will never add up. Strangely, both worlds cannot fit into one
piece. No man in his finest has ever managed to do so.
Nowadays,
old people are becoming choosy, though many are still clinging to the same old
path. There is nothing wrong if you stay the same. It only has a price. At some
point, you will get bored. If you cannot control this, you will find living
tough. People die of boredom. It is nothing new. It is old as ages and grand as
the pyramids of Egypt.
There
is a car for everyone. Strangely, I, a young man in his late thirties, bored by
circumstances that I could hardly bend to my favour, cannot afford something
better than a monument. The Benz 200 was night. What does light have to do with
darkness? I arrived at the scene too late. Everyone in the marathon race had
left. Mercedes Benz 200 is gone for good.
After
covering a huge distance, I drove into some police officers. About four or more
were in a van and one was standing at the middle of the road. He was like
a monument in vast land. I think it was his turn to put road users under
pressure. He waved me to stop. I slammed my leg on the brake. My vehicle rolled
to the corner and halted a few poles away from their van. From the mirror, I
could see the machination against my soul.
The
police officer approached my car. His movement was not coordinated. To avoid
suspicion that he was drunk, he tried to control himself. But every step
he made only betrayed him. He was like the windblown rain, ship without a
rudder, woefully tossed about by every wind that emerged from the belly of the
sea.
Then
the creature whose eyes were crimson red and his head shaven like an egg leaned
forward. “Good evening,” he greeted. He smelled like a bar. The smell made me
want to throw up. “What do you have in your boot?” he asked and kept a straight
face.
“There
is nothing much in my boot sir. I have only my books!” I disclosed and flashed
an exaggerated smile at him.
My
innocent smile had no impact. It seemed to have upset the man. He stared coldly
at me and flung a glance at the back seat to see if he could find what could
implicate me. There was no luggage on the seat. I have learnt never to leave
anything on the seat. If I could not squeeze any luggage in the boot, I forget
about it or come back for it another time. Drivers in Lagos know how painful it
is to be dragged for avoidable offences.
Then
he returned his gaze to me and cleared his throat. “Off your engine!” he
bellowed. “Come out of the car and open your boot!” He adjusted to vertical and
made a few steps back so that I could have enough space to open the door and
get out of the car.
“Okay!
No
problem.”
Without
wasting time, I alighted from the vehicle. Slammed the door shut and carried
myself to the back of the car. He followed me, still not comfortable standing
on his feet. As we walked quietly side by side to the back of the car, I placed
the car keys in my chest pocket and made for the wallet in my trousers. Some of
these men love bribes. Sometimes, it is pleasant to save them the embarrassment
of checking vehicle particulars that are not expired. The routine can be so
boring, especially when they are desperate to find fault and make you pay for a
crime you did not commit. Some are comfortable living a lie, whereas others
prefer to keep it real.
As
strange as things are, a few naira notes could save me unnecessary questions.
So I decided to take my chance and initiate a bribe. Break a long line of trust
if it ever exists and get out of the mess. I got some naira notes out of my
wallet. My plan was to beat the traffic along Apapa-Oshodi expressway as early
as possible. Wasting time with the police officer could jeopardize that and
leave me in a bloody mess. “Sir…” I cleared my throat and scratched my head.
“Yes,”
he responded and glanced up at me.
“I
have something for you.” Smile paraded my face. I stretched out two hundred
naira notes at him. “Please, manage it,” I added politely, bowing my head. “I
still have a long way to go. I need to beat the traffic at Oshodi-Apapa
expressway. If I do not go now, I might not make it early to where I am going.
I live very far and I hate to drive at night.”
He
breathed deeply and aimed a slight dig at me. “Bribe is a crime, you know,” he
told me. “Offering policeman money in order to stop him from doing a proper check
could land you in jail. You are a criminal irrespective of who you are. Always
give room for due process. It will not cost you anything to be patient and
allow us to do our job. The government pays me to look after you. I know what I
am doing. If I want to eat frog, I eat the one with eggs! As you know, it is an
offence to bribe a police officer. Do not make my job difficult for me. Let me
do what is right. Once I am done, you will know if your offer is good enough or
not. If you provoke me, I will take the money and put you in trouble.” He let
go a belch that took some time to mix with the air and kept a straight face.
“Sorry
sir,” I apologized and tossed the money back into my pocket.
As
soon as we arrived at the back of the car, he watched me opened the boot as his
colleagues who sat in the van fixed their gaze on us.
He
was sweating. I was at a loss as to why a police officer would be sweating
profusely with only a rifle. I guess the rifle was too heavy for him to
maneuver. Nearly everything in this life is a nightmare to the drunk. With
liquor gaining prominence, the gun was only unavoidable. The rifle was old and
it is a tragedy for a drunken man to wield such a weapon.
He’s
a representative of the state mandated to protect lives and properties. Entitled
to a weapon and can kill for the state if there is a need to do so. His present
state of mind only made him evil. I was not in the position to fix the problem.
I was the victim. He was supposed to be my friend and protector. The man who
the law has entrusted my life into his miserable hands was drowning. He had
betrayed the state and the people he had sworn to serve. I threw the boot open,
turned to him and crossed my arm over my body.
He
peered down at the books in the boot. His eyes travelled back and forth. He
nodded, simpering and staggered back and forth. He almost knocked me over as he
tried to steady his already disorganized soul. He swallowed hard, licked his
lips as he continued to inspect the books. I proudly showed him my picture at
the back of the books, my name on the front cover and my identity card, so that
he could familiarize himself with the latest author in town.
Suddenly,
a deep melancholy sat on his wrinkled face. He seemed not to be impressed with
my accomplishment. He had barely glanced at the identity card, when he yelled
at me, “How can a fine man like you be a thief? You are into piracy. You are in
soup!”
“What
soup? They are my books! Can’t you see I publish them? I spent several hours to
write the book and had to take loan to print them,” I protested, innocently.
“How can you accuse me just like that? Sir, I am innocent!”
“You
are innocent as you just claimed, yet you tried to bribe me?” He barked at me.
He turned to the van and signaled the other men to come. About three police
officers jumped out of the van and approached us as if they had caught a very
big thief.
Before
I could blink, he turned to them, pointed at me and thundered, “Arrest this
man! He is a thief! Take him to the station. He needs to tell us how he got the
books in his boot and why he tried to bribe me!”
They
glanced at me as if they had doubts about his claim. One of them smiled at me.
Perhaps he was not disappointed about the harsh judgment of his colleague
because they already knew he was drunk. “Good evening sir,” he croaked a
greeting. “Please, can you identify yourself?”
“Yes,”
I cocked my head to one side and looked at him. Without hesitation, I handed
him my identity card.
He
inspected it carefully. He picked some books from the boot and checked them
too. He looked at my face and then back to the identity card. He inhaled
sharply and nodded his head. “It’s all right,” he stated. “You are okay.” I did
not fit the profile of the criminal that their colleague had just described. He
returned my identity card and slammed shut the boot of the car. “My friend, you
are free to go. Get back into the car.”
“Oh,
thank you, sir,” I said to the cop, bowing my head. “God bless you, sir.”
He
smiled and told me, “No problem. You have no case to answer. You can go!”
The
police officer who was under the spell of liquor became furious. “Why will you
let him go?” he barked at his colleague. “Can’t you see he’s printing books
without permission? What other evidence do you need to get this man arrested?
He is a thief! He should go to jail!”
Since
his colleagues did not answer, he was irritated. Then he turned to me, glared
his eyes and yelled, “If you move, I will shoot you! I will dump your body in
the canal behind
us!”
Life
was at stake. Trigger-happy police officers could take any life. Afraid that he
could kill me, I paused.
“What
is wrong with you?” One of the police officers barked at their colleague.
“Respect yourself. I have warned you to stop drinking. If you continue like
this, I will write a report about you and the commission will dismiss you.
Lower your weapon now!”
“NO!
I will not lower my weapon! The man is a criminal. He tried to bribe me!” the
drunken officer protested.
“You
are drunk. How do we believe what you are saying is true? Lower your weapon and
return to the van or I will take the gun from you!”
The
drunk turned to the police officer. He smiled faintly, pointed to me, he said,
“Why are you ranting? What has this man given you? Oh, you have begrudged
me right. Now you want to fight. Touch the gun and you will see my dark side. I
will remove my uniform and we will kill ourselves here!”
The
other police officers glanced at each other. They clenched their fist. Before
the drunk could blink, they pounced on him. They went for his rifle. They
wrestled him to the ground in a bid to disarm him before he would do the
unthinkable and put the team in trouble.
Not
to be hit by stray bullets, I took cover behind my car. There was a struggle
between them. As they fought gallantly with him, he yelled at the top of his
voice, “Who gave him authority to write? He should provide documents to show he
is a writer! Or else, heaven will fall on us!”
I
was a still water in my corner. Not long after, they disarmed him. They
collected the rifle from him and ordered him to return to the van.
I
came out of the corner. As he moved away, staggering, he turned to me, he
muttered, “You are lucky today! I would have sent you to hell!”
One
of the men turned to me. “Sir, we are sorry for the embarrassment. You can go
now but if you have anything for us, you can drop. At least you see how we
saved you from our colleague. That is how he behaves each time he‘s drunk. You
are safe now.”
“Thank
you, sir. I am happy the way you guys put the situation under control.” I
placed my hands in my pocket, brought out some naira notes, and handed it over
to them. They were very happy.
I
entered my car and drove off.
As
I descended the bridge at airport road, my mind began to work. What would have
happened to me if the police officers had not intervened?
Omoruyi
Uwuigiaren is a former cartoonist turned writer. When he was a kid, he loved
music and composed songs for his high school band. After school, he wanted to
pursue a career in music. Instead he embraced writing and studied Mass
Communications. His literary works and books have appeared in Moronic Ox
Literary and Cultural Journal, Open Books, Urban Express Live, Academy of the Heart and Mind and many more.
He’s the owner of Ruyi’s World of Books
and Stories.
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