If a dollar was given for each
time someone was anxious, the Forbes Billionaire list would be an all-Nigerian
affair. Every activity, every encounter, every condition a Nigerian faces is greeted
with the same nervous apprehension.
If a Nigerian wakes up in the
morning and discovers there’s no electricity, he quickly unplugs his phones and
laptop, and switches off the TV and fridge; he is afraid that overcurrent would
blow up his appliances when NEPA* is
restored.
If he wakes up and there’s
power, he scrambles to plug his phones and laptop, and rushes to iron his
clothes; he is afraid that they will take the light* at any moment.
If he lives in Lagos, he dives
in and out of the bathroom and before you could say Bode Thomas, he is dressed
up and on his way out; he is afraid of the city’s mad morning traffic.
If he has to take a bus on his
way, he frantically scans all the passengers before embarking; he is afraid of
entering one-chance*.
If he’s lucky to own a car, his
heart races each time he sees a road-block ahead; he is afraid the policemen
might be high on paraga* – the
catalyst for accidental discharge.
If he drives past a filling
station and sees two cars at the pump, he considers joining them; he is afraid NUPENG with their fuel scarcity are back.
If he is a university or poly
student, the moment he alights he feverishly begins to read the lips of every
passer-by; he is afraid they might just be mouthing the words ASUU strike or
tuition hike.
If he has graduated and is unlucky
to still be in the job market, he shakes his head as he peruses the Tuesday Guardian; he is afraid the vacancy ads
were taken out by one of the employment rackets.
If he works in the bank, he’s
always imagining the emails in his Inbox; he is afraid that HR has sent him the
unsolicited ‘Advised to Resign’ mail.
If he sees someone with unkempt
hair and dirty clothes on his way to lunch, he crosses to the other side of the
street; he is afraid he’s just seen one of the many itinerant mentally-ill
persons.
If he has to use the ATM, he
becomes one with it. He covers it with his whole torso and takes frequent
glances over his shoulder; he is afraid someone behind him is spying his PIN.
If the ATM works and coughs out
the money, he quickly counts it before leaving the spot; he is afraid of being
short-paid.
If the ATM doesn’t work and returns
his card to him, he swiftly digs out his phone; he is afraid of getting a debit
SMS alert, even though he wasn’t paid.
If he enters a mobile-phone
shop, he asks for dual SIM phones and wonders when the triple SIM versions will
be available; he is afraid of relying on only one subscriber and getting
disappointed by dropped-calls.
If he has to see the doctor
(when they are not on strike), he doesn’t want to be told he needs blood
transfusion; he is afraid the lab may be out of reagents for screening HIV,
hepatitis etc.
If he’s given a prescription,
he gets it at the pharmacy and immediately checks the box for the NAFDAC number; he is afraid of being sold
fake drugs.
If it’s Election Day, he is
torn between going out to vote and staying indoors; he is afraid the election
may be militarized or that thugs with huge biceps will show up and ‘kidnap’ the
ballot box.
He doesn’t trust the boys in
khaki or the boys in babariga* with
the government of his nation; he is
afraid the military would kill with impunity and the civilians will steal with
impunity.
As if that is not enough,
lately he’s had to be all eyes for every bulging plastic bag he comes across
and every stationery vehicle he passes on the way; he is afraid Boko Haram has
left one of their booming packages behind.
But, I know a better Way: I
will allow peace, yes I’ll embrace Peace.
NEPA and light: words
interchangeably used for electricity
One-chance: kidnappers
disguised as a bus service
Paraga: moonshine
Babariga: flowing gown worn by men (civilian outfit)
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