10 Aug 2009 |
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ABUJA AXIS OF WAHALA: A TRUE STORY I shall never forget my first visit to Abuja, the city that gave practical expression to a Kanuri proverb which says: ”It’s no use rubbing oil on the body of a hungry child”. From an aesthetic point of view, I agree that Abuja is fine; however, if it is built as a strategic point for creating and redistributing the nation’s goodies, it is nothing other than a grand deception to conceal our reality. Little or nothing really trickles down from that centre towards the periphery of the country. If you stay at home, nothing reaches you; if you reach Abuja, you get punished. May be it’s our fault. Why go there? Aren’t there our representatives who could collect our share of the “dividends” and bring it back home? Are we stake-holders or share-holders? But I went there because I had been advised not to expect manna (and salwa) to fall from heaven, only to realize that even if it fell, the taller folks would grab it mid-air before it reaches the ground. And their grip is so tight and total that there are virtually no crumbs to be picked. My “objective” impression of Abuja is partly based on my ordeal in the hands of the men (and even women) of the Federal Road Safety Commission (FRSC) when I, in the company of my two friends, went there in 2001 looking for jobs, having completed our National Youth Service the same year. Honestly speaking, I had no illusions about the fact of unemployment especially in a third world country where the pooling of graduates in the labour market is said to be inevitable because public and private sector growths are scandalously incommensurate with the rate at which graduates are churned out. So I did not expect to see prospective employers falling over themselves in a desperate bid to employ graduates. I did not expect either to see a cash-stuffed Ghana-must-go bag walking on its own feet screaming to be carried home. But if Abuja could (or would) not give us jobs, it should at least have treated us kindly. I blame Abuja for negligence because if it had helped other cities and villages across the country to be at least half as “fine” as it is, we would probably not have had problems with the FRSC when we “mistakenly” violated traffic regulations and got humiliated and fined to the last kobo. Armed with our CV’s and credentials, we set out on that fateful journey on a bright morning, full of expectations and curiosity. We began the job-hunt early enough with the hope of circumventing the dreaded symptoms of the labour market brought about by a protracted stay in it with its concomitant frustrations and despair. Some of these symptoms include violence (armed robbery, arson, thuggery, killing etc) at the slightest provocation, hurling abuse at politicians, reading of old newspapers and magazines, unsolicited no-holds-barred lecture on the stages of communist revolution and its “bright” prospects in Nigeria. Other symptoms are drug abuse, sanctimonious pontification, thread-bare shirts, trousers with two “eyes” at the back, loss of appetite, hunger proper, unkempt hair, depression, madness, and even premature death. The three of us, Bukar (car owner and driver), Babagana and I had our first encounter with FRSC at the last toll gate along Kaduna-Zuba Express Way. Our car had no genuine FRSC number-plate; instead it had a make-shift plastic one at the front carrying FRSC registration-number and none at all on the rear. On sighting the car, the FRSC man waved us to a halt and without a second thought went straight and removed the number-plate by pulling and breaking it off the screws that held it. We got our mutilated plate back after pleading and producing evidence to the effect that we had actually paid for the real thing and were awaiting delivery before we set out. On getting to Abuja, Bukar quickly fixed the plate by drilling two holes beside the two amorphous craters inflicted by the over-zealous FRSC man. Then, the job-hunt began in earnest. We went round and saw relevant people and places, making connections, distributing CV’s and gathering vital information. We faced no difficulty getting a place to lay our heads after the day’s struggle as my companions had been to Abuja before. What I have not confirmed till date is whether we were truly welcomed by our hosts because no revelation came from their faces. I learnt that living in Abuja is a burden in its own right let alone receiving guests, poor job-seekers for that matter. Also, I learnt that some people only work in Abuja but reside in one of the 36 states of the federation. When we chose to journey by Bukar’s private car for the sake of obvious convenience, little did we know that he had no license, fire extinguisher and the rest of the things serious drivers always have. It was only on our second encounter with the FRSC people that we realized how vulnerable we were to all kinds of trouble. Due to the heavy traffic, it was never easy for the FRSC to stop vehicles randomly in order to check compliance with their endless regulations. Therefore a motorist stopped for one obvious offence will be subjected to scrutiny as regards all the offences in the books of the FRSC. And if the FRSC decides to go by the books 100%, I can bet my last kobo that less than 10% of motorists in Nigeria can pass the test. Real trouble began when, on a superfluous pleasure-ride, we violated traffic-light regulation. The red lights were on, and since there was no traffic from the other two directions of the T-junction, Bukar decided to go through the red light. We were unpleasantly surprised when we were forced by FRSC to stop after covering about hundred meters, apparently betrayed by an FRSC mole stationed at the junction and armed with a walkie-talkie. They informed us of our crime and went ahead to cross-examine us, culminating in a catalogue of charges to which we had no answers. At first we denied committing the offence only to later start pleading profusely with them to tamper “justice” with mercy. Having spent about 50% of our money on fuel alone, we could ill-afford to pay fines. Throughout the journey to Abuja, the problematic car gulped petrol with reckless abandon, so much that we had to stop intermittently to tighten its mouth. “Why didn’t you prepare well before coming to Abuja”, the FRSC man retorted, his nostrils flaring. He was actually asking why we had not come with enough money to pay fines. “We are students coming to see our brothers so we could get some money for school”, I lied. In the past, whenever I was about to tell a lie or do any other bad thing, my conscience would prick me and then I would stop short. But this time around, even my conscience appreciated my predicament and remained solidly on my side as I lied without compunction. In a stupid bid to buttress my point, I presented my old University ID card with the hope that the man would at most give it a casual glance from a safe distance without actually handling it. Unfortunately, the man unnecessarily used both of his big hands to hold the tiny ID card and took his time to regard it with all the seriousness it didn’t deserve. Handing it back to me, he chuckled in a particularly sinister way, and said: “but this one expired in 1999”. That is the tragedy of the labour market: one has lost the immunity of the school and is yet to gain the security of a job. Neither here nor there, literally clutching at straws, I tried to explain that 1999 was only an anticipated year of graduation and that we were still students in 2001 thanks to the incessant ASUU strikes. But the man, apparently not a recent school-leaver, was not impressed in the least. So when that line of argument fell flat, we resorted to pure, unalloyed begging. Putting our degrees aside, we begged each member of the FRSC team separately and then in all the possible combinations that we had learnt in Statistics. Surprisingly, the FRSC ladies proved to be as merciless and impervious as the gentlemen (sorry just men). Who says ladies are characteristically mild? On realizing the futility of pleading, after appealing to every bit of their emotions to no avail, we “agreed” to go to their Nyanya office in an embarrassing convoy of captives and captors with siren blaring from the roof-tops. Our car, along with several other vehicles, was detained pending the settlement of the charges. Handing us over to a different set of people, the hawkish FRSC team that accompanied us went back to work immediately as if nothing serious had happened to us--their fellow humans. Then another powerful round of begging ensured until we “succeeded” in getting the fine reduced to N700. Despite the fact that we had pleaded for clemency on the grounds of poverty, they nevertheless boasted about how they compelled a senator to pay for violating traffic rules. They surely need a seminar on elementary logic. Certainly, they don’t discriminate! Freedom of movement is not absolute! However one good thing I observed about the FRSC is that they don’t carry guns (I stand to be corrected); as such one could beg (and even argue) to an appreciable length without the fear of trigger-happiness or accidental discharge. Eventually we paid the money at the nearest bank and got our car back. Despite my predicament, I fell in love-at-first-sight with Nyanya because of its resemblance to my home town. My friend, that Nyanya of a place cannot even pretend to be part of Abuja. Having learnt a bitter lesson, we unanimously agreed to park the “problem car” till our departure day, only to break the self-imposed embargo on the vagaries of a resolve on being extra-careful and also on the strength of an anticipated sympathy the receipt for our first fine could draw in the event of another arrest. As unlikely as it turned out to be! Please read on. Luckily nothing happened yet, we were able to visit many other places, sometimes purely for the fun of sightseeing, sometimes serious business like going to the Civil Service Commission where we filled application forms and saw them dumped (or kept) right in our presence. “Keep in view”, the clerk said, his voice conveying little hope. Tragedy struck again, on the scheduled departure day. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Our already lean purse suffered a catastrophic drain. Early in the morning, we had bidden farewell to our respective hosts, happy that we were leaving that capital of trouble, though without a glimmer of true hope as regards our mission. The car was racing home when Babagana, defying all odds, suddenly pleaded that we turn back and go to the Office of the Head of Service so he could say “bye” to a “bosom” friend of his. “Perhaps we would get reinforced financially”, he reasoned foolishly. Reluctantly, the car took that fateful turn towards the Federal Secretariat. On reaching there we observed that vehicles were tightly parked at right-angles to the long axis of the road in front of the secretariat. The “road” itself was demarcated only by the parking pattern for that particular day; in effect, the parking space was continuous with the road. One might not tell which was which. When Bukar, the driver, looked round and could not find a space to park, he decided to “park” at the side of the road, thereby narrowing the road and blocking two cars which rears now faced the right side of our car. “After all, you guys are not going to spend much time”, prodded Satan, the arch-devil. We went upstairs and came down to meet the shock of our lives-the car was no where to be found! Bukar and I thought it was stolen. Bukar almost lost his big head in a bizarre fit of perplexity. He seemed to be throwing all the movable parts of his lean body in different directions at the same time. Then Babagana, quintessentially calm, realized that we had parked wrongly and that the car was towed away by FRSC. Meanwhile Babagana’s friend who was supposedly seeing us off smartly bade us “farewell”, and then quickly retreated to the safety of the imposing edifice called OFFICE OF THE HEAD OF SERVICE as if nothing serious had happened to us. Ashe the stingy guy (he did not give us a single kobo!) knew only too well the enormity of the task ahead of us. But before then the clever guy had managed to show us the FRSC “office” in the vicinity of the secretariat. It was a Peugeot J5 bus with VIOLATION INVOICE-wielding FRSC officers sitting inside, and a tow-truck crouching beside it. The ugly truck had already towed our car to Wuse and was back waiting to drag the next kill. There and then we were asked to pay a total of N5,000 in fines. The officers explained that N2,000 was for the towing alone, carried out by an unforgiving private company issuing a separate receipt. We were supposed to have only N2,500 in our treasury. What do you expect? Absolute begging in unison followed during which we assumed all the postures the human anatomy could tolerate. We almost lost our voices in the process. Mind you, all this wahala was taking place just some few millimeters away from the Eagle Square where president Obasanjo had taken an oath since 1999 to alleviate our suffering and provide employment. Finally the fine was slashed to N2,500 exactly the amount supposedly in the pocket of our treasurer, Babagana. Now all eyes and hearts were on him. As he dipped his hand into his pocket to bring out the “money”, he felt a dangerous void. What! He turned all the pockets on his shirt and trousers inside out, but still there was no kobo to be found. He had lost it! We hopelessly watched in utter bewilderment and disgust. Being neck-deep in the sea of misery and distress like a Tilapia fish out of water I, for the first time in my life, began to appreciate why some people commit suicide. It might just be a matter of differences in the threshold of endurance. When all doors and windows of hope seemed closed and we could not be consoled, Babagana, forever calm and collected, told us to “relax” as he made his way to his host’s house hoping that he had somehow misplaced the money. We sat, stood and lay waiting and waiting for him to come back but he was nowhere in sight. At a point Bukar wondered whether Babagana had abandoned us and escaped home. Should we abandon the damned car? No! Now it was about time for Friday Prayers and suddenly we remembered we had not taken breakfast and lunch. Eating at that time of trial and tribulation was certainly a luxury; the hunger pangs were subdued under the gravity of the situation at hand. Later we bought boiled corn-on-the-cob with the last N20 on us and shared it in a comradely manner. My stomach moaned and groaned in protest as its digestive elements pounced on the long-awaited, ten-naira “food” and began to digest it mercilessly as if it was a square meal. We then trekked down to the National Mosque where I implored Allah for a single favour: “get me out of Abuja oh Lord of Mercy; You alone do we worship and You alone do we ask for help”. For good measure, on my way back I was caught in the rain midway. After drenching me completely, it was threatening to force its way into the big brown envelope which was holding my life (certificates from primary school to university). When God ordered the rain to stop, I believed it was for my own sake. We continued to wait for Babagana till nightfall. When everybody including the FRSC staff closed, we, absolutely exhausted, dragged ourselves several kilometers to tell our bewildered but resilient host that we still needed to spend one more night. Babagana had earlier called at the house to leave a message to the effect that he had indeed lost the money and that he had been scavenging for money elsewhere. On the following day we met at the FRSC office, paid the N2,500 and got back our car after over 24 hours of its detention. Now we were free to go but had no money for fuel. Nonetheless, we resolved to leave Abuja that day. We went to another friend of Babagana’s who gave us something good enough to take us to Kano. As we took off around 3 p.m. everything in Abuja seemed ugly to me, all of a sudden. So I heaved a heavy sigh of relief as we zoomed past the ugly city gate. We reached Kano and “rested” for two days before finally reaching the home of peace, Maiduguri. I was so happy. That home-coming was all I wanted, not a job, thereby lending credence to an Arab proverb which says: “If God wants to make a poor man happy, He will make him lose his donkey and then find it”. After one year of struggle, patience and prayers, all the three of us in this tragi-comedy became gainfully employed. For sure, Allah, as usual, has fulfilled His promise upon us: “With every hardship there is relief. Verily with every hardship, there is relief”. How I wish other youths would tenaciously deploy the powers of hope, prayers and patience in the pursuit of their dreams. I have been to Abuja several times since that fateful journey. Did I hear you ask about my latest impression of Abuja? Oh sorry, it’s a secret this time; only that it’s quite different. Suffice it to say that I wish every Nigerian well. I forgive but may not forget. So don’t forget to fasten your seat-belts; it’s definitely in your interest! Abdulrahman Mohammed Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.
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