A FEW DAYS IN ABUJA

Nnemeka wrote in his diary the following record. Abuja is a no mean city! The delicately woven streets of Asokoro and Maitama, the conspiracy of the sun to burn the heads of those who make trekking a bosom friend, the cruelty of the vendors in overcharging you for every product you buy, the taxi drivers greed in punching holes into the linen of your pocket, the giant gate and electric fences that robed the many occupiers with a shadow of security, the ladies skirts hanging weakly on their thighs and its street lights vomiting yellow light at night. He concluded that the city is one meant to evince if not extend the difference between the have and the have-not. It is one city that runs on one fuel – money. Then he struck the words mean, money and extend with his yellow highlighter in his diary. He got the first few words of describing the city of Abuja in his experience. As an Igbo in diaspora raised in Ibadan by his parents who had sworn to banish Yoruba from his tongue, he understood the value of money. His parents soon understood that they were fighting a useless war. Yoruba and Igbo must co-exist as a fountain in his mouth. He knew only one thing. The many charities of Ibadan where every naira, ten, fifteen and twenty could be the difference between trekking to your destination and boarding a taxi.

     He walked languidly to cross the road intersection opposite the Wuse Central Market. An impatient Hausa woman whose face has been overburdened by make up, her skin illumined by bleaching almost ran him down to the black tarred road. Nnemeka starred at her and they both locked eyes together. For a while, the woman watched him unapologetically. Then she wound down her glass window. Her only apology "You should be looking at where you are going to. " . He trekked upwards passing the Wuse Market main gate peopled by buyers. He was asking them "where can I get along to Gwarimpa from here." "Move upwards" they kept telling him. He walked to the park which he was able to locate through the questionnaires that he poured out on many people. At least, this was half the price that the other drivers had asked him to pay previously. They sat three passengers on the back seat. One of the passengers lectured him on using the Barnex Junction, Berger, or Maitama Junction to get to any of the places he wants to get to. The lecturer added, "if no bi so, your money go finish for taxi drop o!" Nnemeka was hungry for a lecture like this. After dropping his CV in Area 1, Maitama, Asokoro, Federal Secretariat and the Aso Villa all though the help of taxi drop, he never understood how much injury had been done to his wallet. When the car killed it's speed at the foot of the Gwarimpa model city gate, Nnemeka's eyes kept a constant appointment with the overhead bridge and the mass of people thronging laboriously like soldier ants on parade. Nnemeka opened the door of the car and hopped out. He mildly planted his two hands on his waist as he pondered how to climb the overhead bridge. When he finally strengthened his arms with the decision to climb up, his phone rang. He took the phone from his pocket and spoke to the person. There was a chuckle on the other side before the phone cut off. Nnemeka hissed. Checked his account balance to see whether MTN has mischievously drain it. He saw it and smiled. He began slowly to climb the Gwarimpa model city overhead bridge. As he reached the top of the bridge, first he saw a woman, whose clothes were threadbare. She lay her unclad son under the burning strength of the sun. The baby was sleeping on his mother's leg as if the sun that burns was some sort of AC for a cold weather. The woman had spread her bedraggled sack on the floor. Nnemeka reached a close distance and the woman lifted up her hands passionately asking for some money. He removed the twenty naira change that was given to him by the driver that had carried him for hundred naira from Wuse Market. It was along that he decided to enter after those drivers in the park wanted to rob him through their high charges. Another beggar was there who beheld Nnemeka when he gave the woman some money. The beggar too was full of expectation. He walked passed the beggar and another one rolled on his wooden wheel like a hockey player. The beggar was sweeping the floor of the overhead bridge. Nnemeka slogged feigning not to have seen him. When he has triumphantly eaten some distance and was about to descend down the bridge, a man stood there watching him diligently. The man gave him a piece of paper with printed words. He collected the paper and read the first words printed in bold lettering. "Please help me, my wife is in the hospital." He gave the paper back to the man and walked down the bridge.

     As Nnemeka looked onward, the driver unperturbed by his hesitancy to sit in the little overcrowded back seat of his car, he remembered Ibadan, a city where the drivers had purged themselves of greed. When fuel scarcity rose to its brim, the generosity of the drivers abound in their charges. Abuja drivers never followed the steps of their Ibadan brethren. The drivers in Abuja are never charmed by the magic wand of Mohammed with his dense hair nicely cut in a punk. His epaulettes worn across his shoulders like a young man whose twenties had gathered distance years. No, the picture of Mohammed on the twenty naira note does nothing to them. He begged with a rage of passion, "how is much Gwarimpa." The driver replied unashamedly into his face. "Two hundred Naira." Nnemeka knew that he still carried with him the remains of the dust of Ibadan with the generosity of its drivers. When he was about to leave the park with its array of cars all going to different parts of Abuja, he overfed his eyes with the black mud once dry but awakened to softness by the rains of the previous night, compressed by the tyre of a car and leaving a fresh streak of zigzag lines drawn across the face of the dark mud. Nnemeka saw the driver looking at him through the corner of his eyes. He wanted his two hundred naira, but Nnemeka was never charitable enough to give it to him. Nnemeka walked as murmuring occupied his mouth.

The number of cars passing by the road shrank as the night stately gathers darkness on its back. Under the cover of the yellow street light of Gwarimpa, Nnemeka marched slowly on the street as he scrutinized it for some fruits seller. He walked towards some police men flashing their lights on the Keke Napeps asking them to turn on their inner light. He reached the Gwarimpa gate and climbed its bridge. All the beggars that stood guard for money had emptied from the bridge because of the night. He passed into the smoky coverage of some Hausa men roasting soya to the adjacent road. He purchase apples, carrots and a cucumber. All at overtly overcharged prices. He returned back to the bridge and went straight to the 69 Road, Gwarimpa. The police men were still standing on the road, harassing Keke Napeps and parking some of them on the curb of the street. When he entered into the house, Nnemeka decided there to audit his wallet and when he did, he noticed that Abuja had in an unaccountable manner sucked ten thousand naira from it. When the darkness loosed its grip over the street, and the cars again resumed their activities on the 69 Road in Gwarimpa, Nnemeka assembled all his bags and went straight to Jabi Park. He entered a bus straight to Ibadan. In the park, seated in the bus going towards Ibadan, he drew up his diary from his bag and wrote again. Abuja is a no mean city! Where those who trek are seen as poverty-consumed, where western life of quiet neighbourhoods has sunk beyond measure and where no money, no life. He highlighted all the words with his highlighter. He closed his diary and thought inwardly, I will only come back here when I am a millionaire.