For Nigeria, and Erica
Love urges us on…
Nigeria was overdue for a good change, and so was Nonso. He was tired of his endless job hunt, frustrated by his ill-fated startups, and embarrassed by the poor example of leadership Nigeria was to its neighbours. Nonso decided for all Nigerians that things must change for good. He would convince everyone he met to vote Peter Obi to become Nigeria’s president. He vowed to herald the dawn of transformation on the 17th of September, 2022, during the one-million-man march in Jos, the heartbeat of the Obidient revolution in the North. Nothing would hinder his resolve, not even his mother’s pleas, nor the fabricated rumours of planned violence which she shared the night before, nor the chores she invented that morning to delay him from going out early. He hated that he still had to live with her and her stiff moral laws. Damn the government! If things had been better, he would have found something far away from home and had a fun-filled life on his terms.
Nonso walked out of the house before his mother would remember another chore. She had succeeded in making him leave by 9:15 AM for the event which was slated to start by 9:00 AM. He walked with all sense of pride along the road that led to PRTVC roundabout like one who was going to receive an award. Like a proud athlete, he tapped the Labour Party logo on his left breast when greeting neighbours. It pleased him how everyone he greeted replied with belief and positivity. He wondered how Obi’s victory march in March would ignite the whole nation in the joy of a new dawn.
‘My son, is this you?’ asked a female voice which brought him back to Buhari’s despondent regime.
‘No, it is not me,’ he replied because he could not recognise the woman who looked like someone he had always known but was not the woman he left at home.
‘It is you. Are you not Nonso Ezeife, Mrs Ezeife’s son?’
‘Mrs Ezeife is my mother, so I am not your son,’ he said in a disrespectful attempt to dismiss her.
‘Inukwanni!’, she exclaimed in a voice from 22 years ago, before the 2001 Jos crisis. Ah! It was Mrs Onyedibe from Dilimi, Carmel’s mother. Back then, in their compound, everyone had agreed that he would marry Carmel when they grew up because they were always together, playing husband and wife. He wondered how she recognised him after all these years.
‘Mrs Onyedibe?’
‘It is me, my son. Eh, how time flies.’
She reached out to hold his hand, trying to examine him, and marvelled at how big he had become.
‘Forgive me, ma,’ he said with genuine displeasure in his earlier repulsive response although his tardiness worried him.
‘No problem, my son. You are all grown now. Hey, how time flies.’
Then she ventured into how both families fled the horrors of the 2001 Jos Crisis, how her family relocated to Lokoja and then to Onitsha, how she is back in Jos for Carmel’s ‘omugwo, and how she could only recognise him from his mother’s recent post on Facebook when he celebrated his 28th birthday.
‘Glad to hear that Carmel is doing well. How is her husband and baby?’ he asked, hoping she would not start another long story, and hoping that the march would observe African time against his distaste for lateness.
‘They are doing better than me, my son. These big men in Rayfield have money.’
‘Yes. I will get mine soon,’ he ended the new story she was willing to tell. He knew that she was about to brag about her son-in-law’s wealth, something that showed that she was better off than him. He refused her that opportunity although he wanted to know what Carmel looked like and wondered who she married in Rayfield. Mrs Onyedibe, relentless, dropped the shocker.
‘On August 20th, you turned 28. I hope you are getting married very soon.’
He was too surprised where it came from and with the audacity it came that his sarcasm failed him.
‘Yes.’
‘Very good! Carmel met her man during the EndSARS protests while she was serving here in Jos. All I am saying is that you can shine your eyes too. If Obi does not win, God forbid, at least you can win a girl’s heart.’
Nonso was red with fury, but Mrs Onyedibe would not be silenced a second time.
‘Your generation of men should learn from their fathers and marry early. But sex is cheap these days, so boys and girls do not see any reason to marry again. You people prefer “baby mama” and “baby papa”, “sugar mummy” and “sugar daddy”. Hei, endtime.’
A tricycle came to his rescue.
‘Thank you, ma. I have to go now,’ he said in another attempt to end her infinite chatter. She was now saying something about how immodest dressing was never seen in her time. He ignored her unending stream of irritable advice and boarded a tricycle that would take him to Secretariat Junction.
A lady in the tricycle greeted him, but he was still recovering from his conversation with Mrs Onyedibe and did not pay attention to the matching Obidient shirt they wore. He was occupied with memories of Mrs Onyedibe’s gossip venture which made her the carrier of all rumours and unfounded tales because she was the busybody who sniffed at every corner for the latest news and earned the secret nickname of ‘FM’ from his parents. That was long ago before things became worse. It was in a time when sweets were bought with kobo coins and twenty naira was too big for pocket money. He sighed at the current price of things and how useless twenty naira had become. Things had to change, and this march was a step towards the return to glory days. He was glad to be part of it.
‘These mechanics are so unreliable!’
Nonso turned to look at the beautiful presence who was complaining to her phone screen. He thought she wanted him to know that she had a car and would not normally use public transport. He wanted to tell her that it was a march and not a drive, but he decided she was too beautiful to suffer the inconveniences of public transport.
‘Don’t worry, you will enjoy the march. It is the sacrifice for a better Nigeria.’
‘My dear, I hope it will be worth it because this country is wicked. They may not allow him to enter Aso Rock.’ She said with so much concern that he could see a divine collision of virtue and pulchritude in her visage. She caught him staring, and she smiled. He was not embarrassed. He wanted to talk endlessly.
‘I am afraid of how free he is with people. They may send assassins to kill him,’ Nonso said. She said nothing as she was typing on her phone. He thought of ways to continue the conversation, and also wondered if Mrs Onyedibe was right when she asked him to find love at the march.
The tricycle driver stopped to pick up another passenger to fill the third space at the back of the tricycle. This meant that Nonso had to move closer to the woman. He enjoyed the brief contact his leg made with hers and was pleased to be closer to her. The man who entered the tricycle hailed them in pidgin English, and Nonso wished the man would not open his mouth again because the smell that lived there belonged to a public toilet. But the man spoke again, and this time, an abomination accompanied his bad breath.
‘These Obidients just dey waste time. Tinubu don win already’.
Nonso doubted if he heard well. ‘Wetin you talk?’ he asked the man.
‘Peter Obi no fit win,’ the man replied with confidence as firm as a rock.
Nonso released the anger that Peter Obi’s pleas for non-violence had kept in check. Obi had asked his supporters to be civil, but Nonso would not tolerate any stupidity from any Nigerian, especially from the wretched-looking man with a mouth odour that belonged to the public toilet.
‘I know your brain smells like your mouth. I know there is shit somewhere in your throat. It is like you shit through your mouth.’
‘It is your mother who produced shit instead of a baby. Bastard! Yahoo boy no client,’ replied the incensed man. Nonso thought the man smelt of burning shit. Nonso raised his hands to slap him but stopped midway.
‘This is why it’s good to drive your car,’ said the woman, pulling away from the ensuing violence. The men were still exchanging threats but made no other attempt at trading blows. ‘Driver please stop me here before they break my head.’
The driver stopped to allow the woman save her class, to ask the men to fight outside his tricycle, and to signal other tricycle drivers to help him extract his fare from the men after they were done fighting.
‘I can’t remember when last I used public transport,’ the woman said as she gave the transport fare to the driver. ‘Poor people are their own problem in this country.’
Both men instantly stopped their repulsive exchange at the mention of ‘poor people’ to heap loads of insults on her.
‘I blame your sugar daddies. They have sponsored your foolishness with Nigeria’s money,’ said the other man.
‘If you were rich, you would not have to manage one jalopy car that lives in the mechanic workshop!’ Nonso said, fighting the earlier admiration he had for her. The woman knew she was no match for the bad-mouthed men, so she hurriedly left the scene and asked the driver to keep the change.
The other man also stepped out of the tricycle and was quick enough to escape the driver who was profusely thanking the woman. The man seemed to have disappeared before the driver could raise an alarm.
‘Shege dan banza! We are our problem in this country,’ said the driver. His good nature betrayed his annoyance. ‘God will judge him.’
‘Everyone supporting Tinubu is a thief, either they are already stealing or waiting to steal,’ Nonso said with everything that was not love. The driver said nothing, stepped back into the tricycle, and continued the journey.
The rest of the drive to Secretariat Roundabout felt like a drive to destiny. Nonso was filled with hope, and the driver smiled like one who had been happy since birth. Nonso recalled with regrets the foul exchange he had with the Tinubu supporter, especially because it made him look stupid before the pretty woman. And he hated every vile word he threw at her. He never expected to be so irritable on this glorious day of the march, but everyone from his mother to Mrs Onyedibe, and then to the wretched Tinubu supporter seemed to free his rage from the confines of his frustration. His mood improved as they approached the venue. There were many cars and tricycles with people dressed in the Labour Party’s green, white, and red colours. Their singing gave Nonso joy; their smiles strengthened his hope; and when the good-natured tricycle driver dropped him off, he felt like hugging everyone at the Secretariat Junction because their love for their country inspired greater love in him. He loved them all. But he thought he would love one lady more than the rest. She was buying a flag. She looked familiar although he could not see her face. Mrs Onyedibe’s advice to win a girl’s heart replayed in his mind and made him remember how important it was to buy a flag for himself.
‘Nigerian flag is 250 naira, Labour Party 400 naira,’ said the flag vendor who sold other Obidient merch to eager supporters.
‘Can you believe this guy?’ Nonso asked, and the lady turned to look at him. It was the same lady from the tricycle. His tongue would not move again. His heart seemed to pause briefly only to beat faster to make up for lost count.
‘You really have a bad mouth for someone who wants to see Nigeria change,’ she said looking away from him and asking the busy vendor to be quick in giving her two Labour Party flags and hat. Nonso decided that she was too beautiful to be wrong about anything she had said inside the tricycle. After all, he was not rich.
‘Oh! It’s you. I’m sorry for what I said in the keke. I was so angry and, I was not myself. I’m so sorry,’ he pleaded. She did not say anything or look at him. The vendor gave her two Labour Party flags and a hat.
‘My happy friends are waiting for me. I came with them,’ she said, giving Nonso a flag. Then she started walking towards the crowd.
‘Thank you. I’m Nonso,’ he said in a failed attempt to hide his surprise and joy. He was too happy to move, too elated to go after her.
‘Angry Nonso, I’m Erica, bye.’
She continued walking.
‘I guess I will see you later!’
She turned slightly, waved her flag at him with a smile more beautiful than Obi’s vision of a new Nigeria, and soon became one with the singing crowd.
Nonso believed this was the new dawn. Her smile was music and was the missing part of the Nigerian national anthem which the crowd had begun to sing.
To be continued in another episode.
1 The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus
2 it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
the majesty of our God. (Isaiah 35: 1- 3)
‘Omugwo’ — A period when a woman visits her daughter who just gave birth to help her nurse her baby.
‘Keke’ — Tricycle
Thank you for reading. Please share.
