THE STRIKE AND THE CULPRIT (A Reverie of the City; Chapter 5)

5

THE STRIKE AND THE CULPRIT

Who said anything about it being a day of rest? Sundays have become business days for churches. It’s when the real hustlers polish their shoes, knot their colorful ties and put on lofty jackets. To finish the work, some gel their hair to blend with their assorted accents. On the pulpit they take center stage, swaying the faithful in the way of the spirit. When it’s offering time, it also depends on the spirit. One could have already put in some money into the collection box, but could be swayed into going again to put in more if the praise music is enough to put you in the mood for more dancing. So you repeat the routine – dance and sing some more, empty your pockets into the box. The people are willing to listen to the preacher because using God has become a ruse to get their full attention and commitment.

Godson’s parents like my adoptive parents are Catholics, but they attend the Sunday evening mass rather than the morning mass. Godson’s father is never happy with the time spent in most Catholic churches on Sunday mornings. He always stresses, “It’s like a charade, church on Sunday morning is over-focused on collection money. They spend too much time concentrating on raising money for one project or the other, instead of focusing on the liturgy. Now we spend at least 3 hours in church of which more than half of those hours are used to fill collection baskets.”

As if the rather sincere statement that read on the bottom of the front-page of the bulletin was just for people like him: You say the Mass is too long and I say your love is too short! The serene, shabby environment that the evening mass at St. Mary’s Catholic Church presents, although bodes in favour of my adoptive-uncle as population is scanty, and crying babies are almost absent meaning that the mass could go on quickly. This was not a church with modern sculptures, mosaics and stained glass. It is just one small plot sheltered by aluminum sheets with the altar slightly elevated with concrete from the largely sand-filled, pew-laden premises. Today as requested by the National Council of Catholic Bishops is a nationwide prayer during the mass for the about 270 girls mysteriously kidnapped by the Boko Haram terrorist group in Chibok, Borno state. I’ve noticed that ever since the group intensified its terrorist activities in the north and Abuja, Lagosians have had this hermetic fear that eventually one day the dense city would be struck: it is the most populated mega-city in Nigeria after all so it’s logical to assume that. People try to avoid crowded bus stops and public places these days. Some to an extreme avoid northerners and smite a Hausa-speaking person with a “Boko Haram” nickname. A fear of the unknown was again evident on the faces of everyone here, but this time much of it was for the kidnapped girls. Some held hands and cried for the fate of the girls in unison with the “Bring back our girls” campaign that had gained international attention and support since the abductions. At the end of the prayers, the priest began his homily, confusing me with his pronunciation of words. When Beelzebub is pronounced as belzeebull it leaves room for a back and forth contest with your peers on whether this or that was or wasn’t said right. And then I realize how alone I’d been since the beginning of the mass. Godson’s been quiet all through today and has rarely said much since we returned from Alaba Rago yesterday. If he were in the mood, we would be scouting the inside Church area right now for fine babes who we could exchange haughty glances and peripheral views with. If there weren’t any (unfortunately like today), we would then resort to making fun of the mass servers. Since Alaba Rago, we’ve hardly said much to each other. He’s seemed to have slipped into a realm of quiet deliberation. It’s been obvious. Last night, he pretended to be interested in watching Nollywood movies with his mother, and this is a very unlikely behavior with Godson. The guy despises the hurried, schlock, low-budget nature of most Nigerian movies so it was surprising that he would be patient enough to sit through the usual less than an hour home videos. He is definitely distracted, like he was fighting with his conscience. Who wouldn’t? Especially when a person like Chief Priest could sound so convincing.

“Look at how you’re dirtying your cloth. You think I have money to buy another one for you?!”

Suddenly I’m distracted by a man worshiping with his little daughters who in turn keeps the attention of a young disabled man on a wheelchair just behind them. The way the father pampers his two little fairy princesses as they occasionally cuddle him, has the disabled man wishing for a premature fatherhood by the entranced, sad look on his face. I manage to whisper a prayer to the huge crucifix nailed to the wall behind the altar, for the disabled man to get the chance to be a father in the future despite his condition. If he eventually makes it to fatherhood that would mean his mentality would be nothing short of absolute nirvana in a world that pities but rejects disabled people.

As another project Sunday collection ends the mass, I notice Godson’s father shaking his head in disgust. If a learned hero like Christopher Okigbo were here, I wonder whether he would act differently or similarly like Jesus did with the Jews in the temple. The Nigerian church these days is divided – at least over 200 different denominations and ministries exist today, a very disturbing statistic. They all hustle money with sweet talk on prosperity and breakthroughs, a creeping distraction from God and being Christ-like. Unfortunately, we here are religion-like; we follow religion but dump its precepts when it’s required outside the church gates. If not, then Nigeria would be heaven by now because people go to church like mad.

But Tuface Idibia’s voice scoldingly pampers in my head: Nobody holy pass eh!

***

“Godson, what exactly are you people planning?”

Its late night, I’m sitting up on the bed: I can no longer hold my anxiety. Moreover, I’m worried that Godson is being misled into this conspiracy but determined to stop him from being a part of it, whatever it is that they are planning. Still the ultimate question remains: when? Godson seems not to care. Lying on the bed, eyes closed and listening to music through earphones, he at first pretends to have not heard, but eventually shifts ground by slowly mouthing his next words very tacitly,

“Don’t disturb me!”

The heat of the night and the occasional buzz of mosquitoes remind me that this could indeed be a long night for my anxiety-filled mind. Outside, the orchestra sounds of gasoline generators have been muted, leaving the loud cries of “Agbaduro, Agbaduro! Mi Oruko Jesu!” coming from a makeshift Celestial Church holding a vigil nearby to rule the night.

***

The Muezzin’s call to prayer is heard in the distance. I wake to realize that Godson is nowhere to be found. He’s usually around to see me off when it’s time for me to return home after a visit. He really seemed withdrawn last night. It’s six in the morning. He must have gotten up very early.

“Adaeze, where’s Godson?” I ask his sister doing her morning chores in the kitchen.

“He left early, after Mum and Dad left for work. He went to Ibadan to spend some time on Uncle Awani’s farm. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.” She replies without looking away from the dirty dishes in the sink.

Something is wrong.

***

The endless procession snakes slowly through the expressway, almost farcical. Multitudes of vehicles spread motionless like herds of cattle chewing the cud absent-mindedly. Engines are either turned off or humming impatiently. On the side, three men stood watching a vulcanizer doing his bit on a lazy car tire, while they expertly analyze the consequences—the conclusions—the suggestions—the speculations about the mute traffic on the Lagos/Badagry expressway. Hawkers see the situation as an opportunity to put their items right in the faces of their customers. Traffic situations could be this bad in the early mornings when people are off to work, to hustle, to meet an appointment. Students are even off to school. But it’s hard to say nobody expected a standstill-esque situation this chilly morning. Gratefully, the sun isn’t out yet else the people in my danfo might be getting more frustrated with the current situation. A young lady sitting in front, who obviously didn’t get enough sleep the previous night, had just finished arguing with a younger man sitting on the row directly behind her on whether it was his right to rest his head against her positional portion of the seat in front of him. She kept up with a strong worded PLEASE sit upright and don’t discomfort me. But the man, wearing a pair of fake Ray-Bans, just wasn’t ready to interrupt his inner nirvana, so he moved onto his lap occasionally repositioning his feet within an uncomfortable legroom. This ended and the frustration spirit seemed to flow onto another older pair sitting close:

-Madam, abeg shift well for me, this space wey I sit-down dey very tight!

- No space here oh.

-Madam, I say make you shift well for me na, how you go just contain all this space for yourself? Na commercial motor be this oh, no be private.

- Mister man, I tell you say space no dey here! Go buy okada, if you dey find space. Rubbish!!

Two school-girls giggle loudly. Everyone shifts their gazes to them probably thinking they were responding to the vignettes of frustration drama. But we all soon realize through the sign-making that they were deaf and unable to speak. They were only communicating with each other while being completely oblivious about what was going on around them or the volume of their loud giggles. Understandably, no one else maintains their stares at them merely for privacy sakes. Outside, all of a sudden, people began to fill out into the traffic-stagnant expressway. Everybody began walking forwards in the direction of the Iyana-Oba Market which was further down. Panic seemed to have attracted them to something chaotic in the distance. The panic replaces the frustration aura in our danfo, as everybody cranes their necks through the windscreens to find out the cause of the pandemonium outside. I see dark smoke in the distance. We all bundle out of the danfo, some harassing the conductor for their change. I see it. In the distance: the Iyana-Oba Market itself is on fire. It engulfs the anterior unpainted section of the market exhaling a cloud of dark smoke. In a half-pace I approach the scene where throngs of people have gathered. Panic becomes pity, for those wailing, lost possessions in the fire. Many of them stood there helpless to the situation, tears in their eyes, a lifetime of hard work going up in flames, a subsistence for their families being wasted before them. I notice some men pointing at the side wall of the burning building of shops and stalls. Boldly painted across it is what seems to be a graffiti signature: an enclosed fist with the words: “And one day, the Oppressed shall rise against their Bullies.” 

Some men determined to salvage what they could, bravely carried pails of water. Their determination is forgiven; the fire is so strong; strong enough to consume them as well. Still, no fire service is in sight, it would take several minutes or even an hour for them to get here. I’m quickly reverted to a rowdy scene that’s generating much attention away from those joining in the brave will of quenching the fire with detergent and mud-puddle water. A young man is being held at the scruff of his blood-stained shirt. His eyes are swollen from the blows delivered by his assailants. The blows keep coming at second’s intervals from the ends of fists, sticks and metal scraps on any part of his flailing body that could be reached by his assailants now growing in number. Gradually, I shuffle through the thick crowd who are only content to visually inhale the scene instead of doing anything to stop it. Weaving through, nobody even notices my pushing through to get a better view, even those I mistakenly step on. “Who is he? What did he do?” I ask one already entranced by the scene in silence at the fore of the crowd. The man half-turns, an expression of reluctant grief, “He was stealing some goods in the market as people were trying to off the fire.”

A thief, caught in the act. Would he be punished at the hands of the grieving few? People screaming murder and ready to pounce on any sniff of a culprit, ready to even lie about the nature of his vice. All this is going on as the fire rages, burning part of the market furiously as more men are now engaged in the pseudo-fire fighting attempt. The culprit has been forced to sit in the mud in the full glare of everyone to await his conviction. As I begin to wonder what would become of him, my hope of a fair treatment is shattered the moment a tire materializes from nowhere. Someone is asking for petrol, bring fuel he says again and again. Mob- Justice! The culprit, now realizing his fate is pleading and struggling despite being pinned down to the spot by a group of shirtless five; but it’s a helpless effort. Looking around, nobody seems to attempt to avert the situation. Have we lost our sanity? Even a pot-bellied police officer in full uniform with a baton in his hand, suspecting what is to come and avoid being seen there is slowly leaking out of sight.

“Officer, You can’t let this happen! Stop this madness!” I say catching his arm. He glances around surreptitiously and then relieved to find that no one is interested, “What can I do, they are society, let them judge him.” And with that he snatches off and disappears into the crowd. But this is not fair judgment. These people are only acting out of grief and rage borne out of loss. The culprit would now become a scape-goat to punish for his transgressions in the public eye. Rather than seek the real culprits, they prefer an exaggerated act of judgment. People are screaming at the top of their voices now, demanding that the prosecution go on ahead. A woman backing a crying baby is at the centre of a mini-audience of market women in the midst of the crowd. She lost her goods in the fire, everything, she cries. Now she doesn’t know what to do, how does she take care of her family now? Let them burn the thief if they want, she says. She doesn’t care about the thief. More people are screaming murder now like the Jews did with Pilate to crucify Jesus. There’s a girl, she’s crying and pointing at the culprit, trying to break free from those blocking her way. “My brother, brother. No, that’s my brother!!! Please stop.” My mind begins to run into channels:

What are we, in the middle ages? – Isn’t this the 21st century for crying so grave? - An era where conscience should be the leading light. - Are we losing our minds already? - Is it becoming a situation where to keep a street clean, you have to place a waste-bin with a little basketball rim attached to it?

Before I know it, I’m blocked too by those behind me. Re-fighting my way back to the fore of the crowd is tougher now, people’s necks craning forwards like giraffes. The tire is flung around the culprit and gasoline is sprayed onto his weak body. Almost in a pained sense of desperation his eyes search the mob for a beacon of hope in the midst of his tormentors. His sister is so torn, her look rent by the appearance of a burning cloth tossed in the air over him. His body is lit. Most of the crowd in a chorus of heaving gasps pulls backwards. The fire ignites him into a fight of fury and flames. He dances, we’re transfixed. The reality of the agony we just allowed to happen strikes us hard as pity and regret rule our expressions. But the thief is burning deep red already; clouded in a black halo all over, his skin had begun to thaw. He tries to reject his predicament but the tire pins him down strongly. For a split second, he meets her glare and stretches out his arm in desperation further revealed by a primal cry for help. And then he resumes his dance of fury and flames.

On the other side of the expressway, a fire truck maneuvers its way through the traffic. I wonder what they will try to save now, the burning man or the burning market. But something odd hits me hard as I walk past the chaotic scene and the stop-traffic. Ten paces on and the situation ahead is different to what’s now behind me. How ironic it is that so many people are going on with life like they were completely ignorant to all that’s now behind me. There’s even an unkempt-looking man lying dead to the world amidst rubbles of rotten oranges littered on weed grass on the side of the road. Flies hover over his face but he doesn’t blink. His eyes stare fixatedly at the skies, a look of desperation – searching for answers behind the clouds. Reminds me of how I used to stare forlornly at the ceiling in my room, waiting for my reality to change for the better. Till I realized that nothing great comes unless you make it happen. I rarely stare at the ceiling anymore waiting for manna from the skies. If one wanted something he had to go get it, if common sense reckons. Life is so unsympathetic to the lazy and unprivileged. A hawker selling journals and calendars snatches my attention. I’ve never owned a journal. After all that’s happened these past few days, maybe it’s time to do some writing. Haggling goes on for less than a minute, agreement is exchanged. I find myself trying so hard to resist the urge to turn back and confirm the reality of what I just experienced.

But this is usually regular Lagos. If anyone is lucky enough he would miss the uglier details of Lagos on a normal day; Lagos can be like this on a daily. We are all rebels. One way or the other, whichever way we all are. But we’re never on the same wavelength - each reacting according to given circumstances. We all tend to do what benefits us, it’s our nature. Passions are what we suffer; they are neither good nor bad. We can only control them with our will. When we don’t, it becomes a sin. So we feel trapped. How do you get out of it? Neither do we know, all we have to do is resist entrapment.

If we could see through the illusion then we are the solution. Yet unknown, the situation seems to have reached boiling point, tomorrow will tell. An individual revolution seems very much on the minds of Nigerians, spreading like a fast fever. But then again it could be as predictable as having a longueur in an electronics handbook; it’s still how it’s always been. Nobody’s talking, nobody’s listening, and most importantly nobody’s thinking. The ones to lead are too valueless and drunk with corruption to realize the role is for them to take right after they get rid of those gold bracelets. When the government misbehaves, the people should be motivated to make them behave. Politics dictates, the artist counters: Fela was rich and successful but he still found enough courage to fight against the military oppressors. He fought for his own value system; his legacy …

As I look out for another danfo to board, I try so hard to resist the urge to fixate further on all this chaos and irony behind me. It’s just like Godson’s favorite line in American rapper Ab-Soul’s song – Beautiful Death:

 “…This life will drive you crazy… Only if you let it!!”

To be continued.

NB: If you missed the earlier parts of A Reverie of the City, here’s the link to Chapter One – https://ehen.co/wild-panoramic-fascination-reverie-city-chapter-1/ 

Chapter Two - https://ehen.co/disjointed-urban-familiarity-reverie-city/

Chapter three - https://ehen.co/flaneurs-dilemma/

Chapter Four - https://ehen.co/the-fela-impostor-a-reverie-of-the-city-chapter-4/