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G21 AFRICA - ONE DAY, PART 2: Steve Ogah continues his tale of travel, identity and life on the meaner streets of Nigeria and Benin.
Igolo, BENIN REPUBLIC - I went to the port with Tunde barely a week after that convincing. It was on a day the Transport Minister was visiting and security was unusually high around Apapa port. I was scared of attempting to steal even a car part from the array of Tokunbo vehicles I saw in a garage. Even though these used cars were inviting, I went back home regardless of Tunde's hope of succeeding on that day. I vowed never to return to the port again. At least not to go and "hustle."
Steve Ogah Maybe it was that spirit to hustle that had been resurrected in me and brought me here. Come to think of it, a lot of Tokunbo cars are imported through Benin Republic. But if it's such a bad and strong spirit, why am I not at Port Novo, capital of Benin? Why am I seated in this open-air eatery where the sun still shines down on me ceaselessly?
The benches are hard and uncomfortable. There are three of them arrange d horizontally in front of a row of shops. And, each time a shopper passes, he disturbs eaters at the eatery. The eaters disturb him too! And each is too shocked and preoccupied to speak.
There is a high wooden table covered with a tablecloth. On this table is a blue Eleganza food cooler filled with pieces of sliced yam, a basin of white rice that is covered with a white plastic bag, a big bowl of brown beans and a black pot of red stew. A basket of cutleries is on the edge of the table too. A woman covered in a flower-patterned wrapper over a large Nikab is beside the crowded table. Her large Nikab is covering her to the waist and I can't see what she wears under the cover. Beside her, on the ground, is a basket of plastic cups and a gallon of water. More and more people come to fill their stomachs and I am shifting away on the bench. Away ...
Now I am on the edge of my seat. And I know it won't be long before I leave here. A man, careless with his feet, hurries into the shops. He digs a swirl of sand in the air. The particles come to rest on those of us on the benches. I flinch and my eyes blaze with shock and suppressed anger.
Instantly crowds of abuses rise at him. The attendant behind the table of food curses him in a tongue I do not know. She points to him and then points to the sky, her eyes filled with hard rage. The young man beside me joins in the show of anger in French. I can tell it is French when I hear the word "Monsieur".
I am watching with silence and I do not want to be dragged into the fray of anger even if the man turns to me. His face is a painting of anger on oil on canvas. He points to his blue cup of water. I can see the dirt. He points to the plate of rice on the bench in front of him. The rice is covered with stew, and then the stew is covered with sand. I nod my head to tell him that I can see that his most beloved meal is soiled and that I can feel his pain too. But I am resisting the strong temptation to speak.
The poor man who is now the victim of the exchanges is holding his hands together, in front of him, like a man offering a fervent greeting in a Chinese temple. He is bowing his head, pointing to the harm he has done.
This still doesn't pacify the lady at the table. She moves to him and seizes him by the hands and drags him to the table. The man is still pleading.
Now the young man beside me stands up and claps his hands over his food in a manner of total rejection. The offender is brought before him and he is speaking in Yoruba language. I am most relieved of the language problem as I speak Yoruba fluently.
"Pele," he says, in Yoruba.
"Is sorry going to bring back my food," the angry man returns.
"Ask him," the attendant insists, adjusting her wrapper now and then.
"What do you want?" The angry man turns to the attendant. "I want a new plate of food," he says.
"Who pays for that?"
"Ask him."
The woman asks the offender if he is ready to pay for the new plate of rice, stew, and a curled and folded big brown kpomo.
The tone of his voice convinces me that it is not a question. If she insists that it is, then it should go down as the hardest I have heard.
"How much will that be?" the offender asks.
"One hundred."
I am shocked that much money could afford so small a plate of food. I have also found out that the traders here prefer to be paid in Nigerian currency of Naira as a result of the exchange rate favouring them when they change into their local CFA Francs currency. They get big money. But things are also expensive. And the money ends up buying very little items off the shelves.
The offender is not prepared to argue. The color of his face is too deep, too sober, but not full of regrets. I see in his eyes that he is just to willing to let go of trouble. He is like saying: "O God I want this nightmare to be over. If this is a dream let it end now. I don't want to wake up to meet this."
And I also feel sympathy for him. I do not want to show it, lest the enraged people rope me in. His action, of course, wasn't intentional as I see it. Yet, he has to pay for it. I consider a grave situation where he has no money. He just appeared out of the many crumpled houses I see, on a stroll, to nowhere in particular, just taking in the city freely, like I am engaged in. Then this happens!
But I am not going to bother myself with possibilities. No time for speculations as the offender is prepared to save himself.
"Here," he says and hands out a one hundred Naira bill to the man whose food he has spoiled.
"No. Give to the food seller." What difference does it make? I expected him to swallow his sense of pride and guilt and collect the money. It is his food that is being paid for. He does not own a charitable spirit. It is so clear, yet he is determined to hide it. I can see clearly that it fails, this much he shows as he returns to his seat in a hurry. He drags his trousers up at the knee. He unnerves his palm. He is ready to resume an encore of his earlier aborted lunch, happy to avoid a deeply contrite mind.
He can't look at me again. I am looking at him, waiting to have his eyes and mine in a perfect marriage. Then I can say to him, "You are an uncharitable spirit. You must go and think yourself to sleep. Wake up and hide your head in shame."
But I still expect him to say to me in some guttural French words I may not fully understand, "See, he has brought my Lunch back."
As I stare at him, I am saying in my mind, "At least you could have asked the young man to pay half of the cost of the food, if you couldn't let him go completely free. He didn't do it intentionally, did he?"
In a sense, my train of thoughts is of little use. It can't crush his conscience.
The attendant is still fumbling in her money container. It is a yellow bucket that used to hold Lisabi Mill's Gold custard powder. As I have found out, this is what most petty traders here find comfortable. They can move their hands in and out very easily. And when the cover shuts, it does so with a click and they are assured their earnings are secured.
"I haven't made much sales today," she says. "I don't have enough here to give you your balance."
"What am I to do?"
"You can come later and collect it. I will still be here till seven o'clock."
"No, I need it here and now."
"That is none of my concern, after all the money belongs to this man here, in the first place." She has felt the tone in his voice. The delay is getting on his nerves and his eyes are red with impatience.
"Both of you had better resolve how I am going to leave here," the offender says, pointing to each person.
The attendant looks at the bench. The man is silent. I am too.
What does one expects me to say, a mere stranger; just sitting, trying to decide what plucked him to this town of broken roads, small and crowded streets, lined with trading stalls, occupied by sweaty men and women?
To be CONTINUED
© 2006, GENERATOR 21.
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