Not My Portion!

“HAHAHAHA!”

“Jesus! Guy why you fall our hand naa, so all that akpuobi  na for show?”

They were laughing at me, Ejiro was bent over in his chair and Mike was choking on his beer.

Chike had just told them about my experience at The Edge last week (see here). Bad gist indeed travels fast, someone at the gym probably told him too.  Now I knew for sure that I would have to stay away from that gym for a while.

“It wasn’t like that…they say she is an Olympic champion! Na she win bronze for weightlifting last year. Mike you should have seen her.”  

I was hoping to redeem myself but it didn’t change anything. They laughed even harder.

I looked at our table and decided we needed more suya. We were at Greenwich Bar and Suites in Lekki. I stood up and headed for the main stand.

“Where you dey go?”

“More suya… I am coming.” They were still laughing when I left.

At the suya stand the Hausa vendor was lining more meat on the barbecue gauze. It wasn’t Abdul (remember Abdul from last time? (See here). No, Abdul was serving four years in Kiri-Kiri for attempted manslaughter, so I heard. I looked into my wallet, and saw I didn’t have cash on me.

“Do you have a P.O.S machine, so I can swipe my Visa card?”

“Pisa machine? Oga I no dey give Pisa…na Bornu I from come. Insha Allah, if I get I for don go London since.”

“Never mind”

I didn’t have patience to explain. What did I expect?

I walked to the ATM machine close to the gate but there was a long queue. Somehow it seemed that everybody in Phase 2 had decided this was the only ATM they would draw from. I asked a woman at the end of the queue if she was the last person…

“God forbid! I will never be the last person, it is not my portion in Jesus Name!”

I was confused. Had I said anything wrong?

“Madam, I just want to know, is…”

“I have already told you Sir, I can never be the last!”

I silently joined the queue, I couldn’t shout. One can only wonder what these mushroom churches preach these days. It reminded me of an experience I had back at Nsukka when I was a student at UNN.  My brother and I were at Peace Mass Transit (PMT) about to shuttle from Nsukka to Owerri for Easter holidays (we had no choice). Before the journey began, it was routine to write your name, address and phone number of your next-of-kin just in case there was a need to contact them.

Now this was common practise with transport manifests everywhere, however some women saw it as a curse and bluntly refused to fill the register.

“Mba nu! I can’t wish myself bad luck. We will not have accident”

“Chi lee! Chukwu ekpe kwela ihe ojoo! God forbid… I am not writing my name” Another interjected.

We simply tried to explain but all pleas fell on deaf ears. Their pastors had told them that filling such manifests meant conceding to the possibility of a road accident. Nothing would make them touch the pen. Tufia!

The journey began without much ado. As a habit we both sat in the front close to the driver in order to avoid the stinging fumes of ose Nsukka (yellow pepper, one of Nsukka’s notable exports) being transported by these same superstitious women.

I was quite tired; we had stayed up most of the night for a bonfire at CEC and had had little sleep. I was about closing my eyes when a shrill voice jostled me.

“PRAIIIISE THE LOOOORD! PRAIIIIISE THE LIVING GOD!!”

“ALLELUUUUUUJAH!!!”

Even my brother was startled. We realised it was the usual pre-journey prayers. One of the Ose Nsukka women had decided to lead prayers and banish all dark agents and principalities from the bus much to the welcome of the other travellers.

At first I thought it would end at the prayers, but the praise and worship session soon followed. After about an hour, it was clear that I wouldn’t be getting any sleep during that journey. In fact it appeared that my brother Ken and I were the only people not singing along to banish the witches and wizards. One of the women nudged someone to tap us, but we wouldn’t be bothered (I had said the Grace earlier). In response, they intensified the tempo of their songs as if to force the evil out of these heathens. The bus driver kept watching too like he expected us to scream and start confessing any moment.

It wasn’t long before he inserted a tape and began to play the hit song then Akanchawa…

That four hour trip to Owerri, cramped in a small bus with stinging pepper fumes, listening to Akanchawa at near deafening volumes will always remain one of my most memorable bus-trips in the five years I spent at UNN.

Greatest Lions! Greatest...

“Hello? Hey…”

Someone behind me tapped my shoulder.

I was roused from my trip down memory lane. It was my turn to draw from the ATM. I looked around for the woman who was in front of me but couldn’t find her anywhere. I put my wallet in my back pocket and walked towards the suya stand. The restaurant kitchen-door suddenly swung open as if by some windy force and the cook hurried to shut it, but not before I observed the basket of yellow peppers sprawled on the floor.