Frustrated and fagged out of my mind with my emotions in a jumbled mess, I was on the verge of erupting in a volcanic rage, a state I hadn't been in since Obasanjo was an occupant in Aso Rock. I had waited all day alongside a very good friend of mine to receive copies of very important documents from a prospective client in Abuja and by the close of work it seemed the said client had engaged the services of the Nigerian Postal Service to send the documents instead of the internet that he had claimed to use. For weeks prior to this day, I was slowly but gradually coming to the conclusion that no one in Nigeria could do business in a straight forward manner without ‘posting’, and at this point, I had definitely arrived at it.
Why couldn't he just say “sorry sir, I do not have the documents you've requested for but as soon as I get them, I’d forward them to you” instead of saying “ahn! I've sent it now. You haven’t seen it?”
It is interesting to note that up until today, as I write this, I have not received the documents that my ‘oga’ claims to have sent. Before I digress too far, yes, I was definitely simmering with anger and decided to start heading home at least to get a decent meal before the cook retired for the night. Plus, my friend was marooned on his own island of exasperation and wisdom and experience had taught me that in this state, we both weren’t a very safe combination. We had our different ways of dealing with issues like this and while his was a bottle of vodka and a damsel at hand, mine was a long hot bath, some good music and a good night sleep aided obviously by nicotine which would have been administered somewhere during the ‘listening to good music’ part and just before bed. I hadn’t made the trip to the office in a private car so I was sentenced to going home via public transportation and just as we were leaving, my friends companion for the night arrived with more bad news. She had come through the shortest route possible for me and it was jammed. There had been an accident and trust Lagos, it didn’t take much time for that route to be impassable. How cruel could this day get? Now I had to go the long way, through 3rdmainland bridge, and that route at this time, was every tired worker’s nightmare. Sad as that thought was, I had to get moving. My friend, obviously out of pity for my plight, offered to drop me off at Obalende before heading home with his dame and even more bad news awaited me on arrival. The BRT queue for Oshodi seemed to go on forever. With one last look of pity, he drove off wishing me well and apparently in a hurry to get his own night started with the babe who had replaced me on the passenger seat. Even from this point, I could see the traffic on the bridge snaking its way towards the horizon and beyond where any trace of hope for my anticipated decent meal had fled with the sight. I was doomed. Forty five minutes later, after standing for what seemed like eternity while being tortured by the sight on the bridge, I was seated in a crowded BRT bus. The officials had crammed every available space with bodies reeking with the smells of a long hard and sweaty day and I was too tired to even voice my displeasure. The sounds and smell all mixed up with anger was creating a nauseating feeling that was sweeping through me, wave after wave and huffing and puffing was all I could do to fight my already frayed nerves. I was highly irritable and all that was needed to finally shelve this day amongst the catalogue of “worst days ever” in my mind was going to be a very little trigger. I knew it as I knew the stark difference between day and night, and acknowledging the danger that posed to me and those around me, I whispered, or more like, muttered a little prayer “Lord, help me”. The bus lunged forward making its way towards the very nightmare I had spent almost the whole year trying to avoid and with it my desperation continued to grow. With the start of the bus and as if on cue, the man sitting besides me with a bucket on his lap drifted into sleep, with his head bobbing up and down, and occasionally resting on my already tense shoulder.
To make matters worse he was the one seated next to the window as I had gotten the aisle seat and not only did I have to condone his inconveniencing presence, I also had to contend with those passengers who had been crowded into the aisle and were looking for something, or in my case someone passive enough to lean on. Couldn’t I just get a little respite from the troubles of today, like an angel magically parting a way through the traffic for this bus to pass through or better still causing the traffic to evaporate? I was looking at approximately two more hours spent navigating through the sea of cars on the bridge and I could feel my patience which was already at its limit ebb away.
At this point, I almost screamed to the high heavens at the top of my lungs, and that’s when I met her…
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