By Taju Tijani
The ritual of baptism by fire is standard in Nigeria. The ritual of living with mayhem, chaos and confusion is everywhere and anywhere you turn to in Ibadan. To burn time, I followed my morning routine to the hilt. Press up, squat, my bowl of pab (ogi) with assorted agunmus, Bible study and prayer. That takes me to 11.00am. Thereafter, I drive out to see the boys overseeing my business. Cash out, then I disappeared into the air looking for fun or fight depending on what anybody brings my way.
Digba, a friend, looked at the van I just bought. He encircled the car like the dreaded VIO officers on Nigerian roads. He could not believe what he was seeing. He gave me a high five. “Teejay, o try o. They have not baptised your van for you. Ni igboro Ibadan,” Digba said, holding my hand in admiration. Digba was born, bread and buttered in Lagos. He relocated to Ibadan to avoid the violence, area boys gangsterism and extortion of Lagos. He is a typical Ijesha man. Digba is highly opinionated, stubborn and has little regard for women. He considers them as kalokalo – money machine!!
When we settled down, I probed further. He then said that he was impressed that my van has not had any scratch on the body work even though I commute to my business every day with the vehicle. What Digba said is every driver’s nightmare on Ibadan road. The dragons on the road are the okada riders, danfo and maruwa drivers. They manoeuvre recklessly on the road. They frustrate you every inch of the way. Once they crash into you. That’s it. They become subdued, humble and begging for mercy. In Ibadan, forget about asking for their insurance. Car insurance in Nigeria is a scam. They will not pay you a penny for the damage to your car.
READ ALSO: I’m a Londoner: Get me out of Ibadan (Part 1)
No wonder, a classmate who is into insurance business is today a billionaire. Smart geezer!!! To relieve my boredom, I develop friendship with Mama Bisi who runs a restaurant along Orita Challenge. On my way home, I find it uplifting to sit quietly in a corner of the restaurant drinking my potent combination of palm wine and Guinness. Younger customers are more interested in Olekonko, Mama 90, Combat, Lord’s, Koboko, Dadubule, Baby Oku, Kogbebe, Erujeje, Osomo, Ruzu and Odogwu.
Through the rubbish falling off the stinking mouth of our youths, this nation has lost its youth to inanities. They all want to be rich. Anyhow. They are desperate humanity looking for mugus abroad or local to drain. Nigeria has conditioned them that they must get rich at all costs. They want respect. And in Nigeria, you can only get that through your deep pocket. Forget about righteousness or humble reliance on God. Our youths have become monstrously aggressive in their search for wealth which eludes them daily. I’m tired of listening to the chattering classes who dream of becoming Davido without the hardwork. I’m a Londoner, get me out of Ibadan!!!
My wash up diaspora colleagues envy me badly. They hail my courage to return to Ibadan to settle down to the Nigerian dream. Ibadan dream so to say. When I post the picture of my farm produce – coconut, cassava, banana, ewedu, ugwu, pawpaw and mangoes, they go wild with longing to be in my shoes. Any talk about the sunny weather in Ibadan makes them go emerald with green envy. They don’t know what internal demons I fight daily in Nigeria. The noises, dirt, extortion, road chaos, high cost of living and darkness from PHCN.
READ ALSO: I’m a Londoner: Get me Out of Ibadan (Part 2)
Then, Wale Abdul, the WAB, called from Hamburg. He wants to come holidaying with me and experience the rustic living in Ibadan. I obliged. I did not give any warnings. I want him to come and see and feel the pulse of things in real time. I want him to come and enjoy his stay and at the same time feel the shock of his future relocation to Nigeria. One cool evening Wale landed. The local Uber guy drove him to my hideout. PHCN darkness welcomed him home. Wale had not been back to Nigeria for twelve years.
He encouraged us to go to expensive restaurants for food and drinks. We employed a jobless local driver to drive us around. Let the driver take the shit on Ibadan road. We cared less. Wale was spending money like MKO Abiola. I cautioned him and advised him to see my surveyor and a land agent to build his own home in Nigeria. Two weeks into his eight weeks stay, Wale began to bother me.
“Look Wale I am not into matchmaking at all. In my area I am a well respectable man with integrity. So, stop that fanciful idea of looking to turn my local area into a war zone for libido sortie,” I warned Wale. He had been pestering me to organise local ladies for his passing pleasure. He was ready to spend money for his conquest. He looked for other ways to satisfy his urge. He would go out on his own with our hired driver and return at the dead of night. The local vigilantes had to escort him home twice to confirm that he was a guest of Baba Londoner. I endured Wale for eight weeks until he returned to his Hamburg.
Many diasporas are like Wale. They have lost a sense of priority. They have no property in Nigeria. They stay with friends and family when on holidays in Nigeria. Nigeria to them is a crime scene. Nigeria to them is a high-risk investment. Nigeria to them is a land of wickedness where brothers are vicious, mean and deadly. So, they hold back any commitment to sink money into projects and hand the projects to locals to oversee for them. That is their mortal fear – falling into the rapacious hands of either friends or family members who may morph from lamb into wolves at the smell of opportunity.
One day Mama Bisi called me aside. She looked at me pityingly. I knew what was going on in her mind. She looked at me again to know if I was ok. Then she opened. “Are you enjoying Nigeria sir. Oga o..that you could be enjoying Nigeria. If I had a chance, I would sell my business and japa ni o. There is nothing here than wahala from daybreak to moonlight. Are you coping sir,” Mama Bisi probed, looking at me as if I am a mad man to have left London to stay in Ibadan. “Madam thank you.” I refused to defend my action. READ ALSO:
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Many people have regarded my homecoming as madness. Now you have it. A summary of the country called Nigeria. When your countrymen and women see Nigerians who had lived abroad and decided to return home being called madmen and women, then that country is finished. So, I’m a Londoner, get me out of Ibadan!!!
Concluded.
