By Taju Tijani
My imagination was restless. Nestling in a smart flat in London, I began to detail all my imagined future conquests in Ibadan. Preparation was in high gear. I had to prepare to confront Nigeria. Skyscanner made my search easy. I got a reasonable return ticket from Lufthansa enroute Frankfurt. Check in was easy. With just regular luggage, one hand luggage and a backpack, I was ready to junket back home to chill and enjoy the early sunshine of the year. There was no foreboding. I had prepared my mind to face all the unseen consequences of my action. I am a Nijafile. I travel to Nigeria thrice a year. It has been an established tradition that I must breeze in to see friends and family. So, when I touched down in late February at MMIA, I knew my fate was sealed. No fear. No tears. No regret.
Nigeria is a macho, restless and brutalising nation. Every capital city in Nigeria is a wasteland of chaos, hustle and bustle, fights, competition, rascality, humour and mayhem. You will be dirtied by area boys. Market women will mow you down with abuses. You will enter the dormitory of rascality if you go on public transport. Your neighbour is ready to raise hell with you over a driveway or your fence. Beggars will encamp on your gate looking for crumbs from the master’s table. Long lost classmates will be looking for the Londoner who just landed from Mars. Artisans ranging from barber, mechanic, carpenter, laundry hand, bricklayer, grass cutter, plumber, electrician, cleaner, pastor, imam, and stargazer will be lining up to show up at your gate. Coming to you uninvited is a normal thing in Nigeria. That is who we are. In Nigeria, we break protocol and could steal the show bread placed on the altar meant for God.
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I spent a week indoors trying to delete London from my system. The routine was press ups, breakfast, lunch and dinner. In between I listen to the news both local and international. I resisted the temptation to venture out into the cauldron of noisy humanity I saw through my bedroom window daily. I had to be mentally prepared for my initiation into the happy chaos that is Nigerian cities. I killed time reading voraciously. I bird watch in my compound. I studied lizards and snakes as they manoeuvred around the compound. I serenade my soul with soulful jazz, iced water and my beloved Guinness. To hell, that’s me!
One Saturday morning, there was a loud bang on the gate. It was a collective assault of several hands baying for blood. A battalion of angry hands fell like rain showers on the gate. “Londoner, e karo o,” the leader of the pack shouted. I was stone cold. I maintained a stillness you find in mortuary among the dead. The greeting rang out again, again and again. Unknown to me, local spies had grassed that I was in town. I was the fugitive they had been looking for. Why? I scratched my head. By headcount, my hunters numbered eight. Wow!
“Who is at the gate,” I mustered courage and walked to the gate with irritation bothering on anger. I was ready to call their bluff and create a local revolution. I opened the gate. “E karo sir. Awa ni sir, awa landlords ni sir,” a retired teacher among the pack greeted. The rest looked uncomfortable. I held a stony face hidden under a dark shade bought from TKMax in London. They were the Landlords’ Association members hunting absconding debtors with outstanding payments for local vigilantes who stayed awake each night for us to sleep peacefully. The secretary brought out a big book.
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“Londoner e kabo sir,” the secretary began. I was enjoying the drama with a subdued humility. “Hope your trip back was eventful sir?” I nodded and betrayed a little smile. “Each time we come to visit you; it is always that you have gone back. We are lucky to get you today sir. The last time we received vigilante payment from you was 2020 sir,” the secretary narrated, looking at my face. “How much am I owing?” “Bla…bla…naira ni sir”. I pressed my phone and made a transfer to the financial secretary. I paid half with a promise to clear the debt later. That settled, the rest of the gang began to throw pleasantries at me. “Londoner, kile mu bo fun wa o,” intoned a lanky Ijesha man. “Agbodo gba nkan ti e mu bo leni,” Baba Sunday, a retired police officer chipped in. They all dissolved into a strange laughter. They waited for a positive response. I asked for time since I just arrived. They agreed and left. I shut the gate and went back in.
On Sunday, something else happened. I had just returned home from church. There was another knock on the gate. I made a vow that I will not go near the gate. That will not be. A local pastor had also come to ambush me. He banged on the gate and waited patiently. Then God intervened. A friend who lives in Abeokuta and was driving back home decided to make a detour and call on me unannounced. I heard intermittent car horn blaring out. Who could this be?
Then my phone rang. “Teejay, Jaiye ni…Jaiye Keshinro,” he said laughing. Defeated, I made for the gate. There, standing silently was Pastor Mofe in his full Cherubim regalia, looking holy. “Ah, alagba eyin ni engba gate tele…emabinu, mi o mo,” I apologised for keeping the man of God waiting. When God is in the details, he arrests you, defeats you and humbles you. Jaiye drove in. I asked him to go in and that I will join him soon. “Mape o, mi o ni pe lo o,” Jaiye warned.
READ ALSO: Japada: The Pain, The Agony, The Tears (Part 3)
Pastor Mofe stood in his regal white Cherubim attire. His grey goatee beard looked lushful. There was a visible humility about him like a supplicant asking for mercy or something from his maker. He went into a long greeting and a harvest of prayers. I was saying Amen…Amen….Amen! Then I heard a loud bang from my living room. Jaiye rushed out, totally freaked out…
…To be continued.
