2003
------
Zibby started at giant anthills whizzing by him as he reclined on his comfy coach seat. Thoughts whizzed through his head, almost as quickly as those beautifully constructed anthills did. He was worried. For weeks, he had been trying to book an appointment for a visa interview in Lagos, without success. He was now seven weeks away from the start of his course at King's College London. Telephone contact was required, but the Commission's number was always busy; 8am, 9am, 10am, it didn't matter. The number remained busy until it closed at noon. Zibby was confident of getting the visa, but he was increasingly worried that he might not get the interview on time.
After lamenting to a few friends, some pointed him in the direction of Abuja, Nigeria's capital city located a 10-hour ride away from Lagos. Apparently, there were less people attending visa interviews there, and no previous appointment was necessary! How hard could it be?
The first day he arrived at the British High Commission (BHC) was a Friday. He was informed that interviews were not given on Fridays, but that he should return the next week, Monday to Thursday, between 9 and 12 noon. That sounded easy enough. After what felt like a very long weekend, Zibby proceeded to the BHC on Monday, at 10 am. He could hear the hum of voices before he saw the crowd. A sea of heads stretched from the embassy gates to the pavement, spilling over slightly unto the street. As his lips parted involuntarily, he thought:
What have I let myself in for?
He promptly left, resolving to return earlier the next day. Tuesday was no better, despite the fact that Zibby showed up at 7am. The crowds were there, as if they had slept there all night. A few enquiries confirmed that they had. This was when Zibby took temporary leave of his senses. Seeing his place at King's College evaporating before his eyes, Zibby resolved to return that night at midnight, to camp out with his fellow insane.
Midnight, at the British High Commission. Seeing only 5 people waiting, Zibby's heartbeat increased. Finally, he could be at the top of the queue! He would get in by morning, have his interview, and visa in hand would return to Lagos the next day! If only things had been that simple.
By 1am, there were about 20 people at the gates, and they had formed a rough queue. Zibby was 6th in line, and was still feeling very pleased with himself. This was when the police arrived. Swooping down on the visa-seeking gang as if clearing a riotous mob, the men in black chased all 20 people from the BHC gates, brandishing guns and horse-tail whips. Zibby's eyes were wide with terror as he ran, though he noticed that the young men running beside him were laughing.
Does this happen all the time?
After about an hour of hanging around, the queue began to reform! Zibby was obliged to join them, for obvious reasons. Sure enough, by 4am, out came the dependable police men. This time, there were over a hundred people there, and their escape could best be described as a stampede. A woman went down in front of Zibby, and in his attempt to avoid her, he lost his balance. Crashing to the rough concrete floor, he scraped several centimetres of skin off his knee, ripping his black formal trousers in the process, before rolling over and landing heavily on his back. Lying flat on the ground and looking up at the serene stars as 3 young men jumped over him, Zibby winced and thought:
Has it come to this?
He got up quickly and limped away to escape an oncoming whip-wielding law enforcer. His heart was heavy, but he was determined to see this embarrassing situation through. By 8am, he had lost count of the people gathered, but this time, he was near the front. Shielding his face from the annoying tourist who was taking photos of them, he waited.
At 9am, the doors opened and it seemed like it would only be a matter of time before the pain would end. 3 hours later, with only 7 people left in front of him, the BHC gate closed for the day. They were to return tomorrow; no queue positions were saved and it would be a matter of first come, first served.
Zibby walked dejectedly to a nearby shop and bought some tissue paper to daub his bleeding knee. By the next morning, with his bags packed, he returned, visa-less, to Lagos.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Missing the Obvious
2003
------
After his first few weeks in London, Zibby got in touch with some old school friends who had lived in the city for years. They all arranged to meet up in the city centre one night. Zibby carefully took down the directions to Leicester square, and after a few words to his Aunty, stepped out in his first attempt to use the public transport system on his own.
The first part seemed easy. Get on a bus, and get to Hendon Central. He jumped on the bus, and off it went. Five troubling minutes later, Zibby realized that there were no announcements telling him which station was which! He was in shock. He had been so impressed the tube system's regular announcements, and the clear labelling and signposting of all the stations. How do they expect visitors to know what to do? He thought. With some degree of foresight he had asked cousin Ama what he should look out for as a landmark near the station, but even that did not seem to help him. Thirty minutes later, he was at the last stop for his bus, Brent Cross shopping centre. He had obviously passed Hendon Central without noticing.
Zibby got of the bus and made his way resolutely to the other side, to try again. As they headed off back in the direction of home, he remembered the way bus conductors in Lagos would yell out the name of every bus stop as they approached it, checking for the standard response, "owa!" which would mean that someone needed to get off. That's what this bus is missing, he thought. A proper Lagos-style conductor!
This time, he asked a few people on the bus who were kind enough to tell him when to get off for the station. Stepping out of the bus, he stood in one spot and looked around him, but still could not locate anything that looked like a train station. He approached a group of ladies and asked politely, "Excuse me, could you please tell me where Hendon Central is?" They turned and looked at him, and then at each other. "What?" asked one. "I'm looking for Hendon Central" repeated Zibby. A couple of the girls giggled. "What have you been smoking?" asked another, as they moved away from him.
As they disappeared into the distance, Zibby realised that he was standing under a massive HENDON CENTRAL sign. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and walked into the building. Sure enough, the ticket barriers were round the corner.
Approaching the barriers, he saw people tapping some cards on the top the ticket barriers and walking through, so he confidently did the same with his travel card. Nothing happened. With a small queue building up behind him, he tapped and tapped, but the barriers refused to open. An attendant came over to him, took his paper ticket from him, and put it through a lower slot on the ticket gate. Still nothing happened. Zibby heard impatient shuffling behind him.
"Please take your ticket." said the patient but clearly amused attendant.
"Where is it?" asked Zibby, flustered by his mounting sense of embarassment. As he spoke, he spotted the ticket sticking out yet another slot on the top surface of the barrier. He picked it up and the gates opened. "Thanks!" he said, trying to laugh off his feelings of awkwardness.
He would later learn the difference between oyster cards - which you tap on the reader to open the gates, and the paper tickets such as that which he held on that day.
After an enjoyable time out with his friend, Zibby returned home quite late, but happy. As he walked up the brightly-lit road to the front door, he thought: Many times, the obvious is only obvious because you're familiar with it. He resolved within himself to be more patient with those who displayed ignorance of things he thought were obvious.
------
After his first few weeks in London, Zibby got in touch with some old school friends who had lived in the city for years. They all arranged to meet up in the city centre one night. Zibby carefully took down the directions to Leicester square, and after a few words to his Aunty, stepped out in his first attempt to use the public transport system on his own.
The first part seemed easy. Get on a bus, and get to Hendon Central. He jumped on the bus, and off it went. Five troubling minutes later, Zibby realized that there were no announcements telling him which station was which! He was in shock. He had been so impressed the tube system's regular announcements, and the clear labelling and signposting of all the stations. How do they expect visitors to know what to do? He thought. With some degree of foresight he had asked cousin Ama what he should look out for as a landmark near the station, but even that did not seem to help him. Thirty minutes later, he was at the last stop for his bus, Brent Cross shopping centre. He had obviously passed Hendon Central without noticing.
Zibby got of the bus and made his way resolutely to the other side, to try again. As they headed off back in the direction of home, he remembered the way bus conductors in Lagos would yell out the name of every bus stop as they approached it, checking for the standard response, "owa!" which would mean that someone needed to get off. That's what this bus is missing, he thought. A proper Lagos-style conductor!
This time, he asked a few people on the bus who were kind enough to tell him when to get off for the station. Stepping out of the bus, he stood in one spot and looked around him, but still could not locate anything that looked like a train station. He approached a group of ladies and asked politely, "Excuse me, could you please tell me where Hendon Central is?" They turned and looked at him, and then at each other. "What?" asked one. "I'm looking for Hendon Central" repeated Zibby. A couple of the girls giggled. "What have you been smoking?" asked another, as they moved away from him.
As they disappeared into the distance, Zibby realised that he was standing under a massive HENDON CENTRAL sign. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and walked into the building. Sure enough, the ticket barriers were round the corner.
Approaching the barriers, he saw people tapping some cards on the top the ticket barriers and walking through, so he confidently did the same with his travel card. Nothing happened. With a small queue building up behind him, he tapped and tapped, but the barriers refused to open. An attendant came over to him, took his paper ticket from him, and put it through a lower slot on the ticket gate. Still nothing happened. Zibby heard impatient shuffling behind him.
"Please take your ticket." said the patient but clearly amused attendant.
"Where is it?" asked Zibby, flustered by his mounting sense of embarassment. As he spoke, he spotted the ticket sticking out yet another slot on the top surface of the barrier. He picked it up and the gates opened. "Thanks!" he said, trying to laugh off his feelings of awkwardness.
He would later learn the difference between oyster cards - which you tap on the reader to open the gates, and the paper tickets such as that which he held on that day.
After an enjoyable time out with his friend, Zibby returned home quite late, but happy. As he walked up the brightly-lit road to the front door, he thought: Many times, the obvious is only obvious because you're familiar with it. He resolved within himself to be more patient with those who displayed ignorance of things he thought were obvious.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Checkpoint Exploitation
1998
------
Zibby cruised down University Road in his Peugeot 305, the sun shining brightly through the windows causing narrow streams of sweat to roll down his back. He had inherited the car from his mum and though it was pretty old, he was proud of it. His friends called it ‘the jeep’, which was short for ‘jalopy’ – a wreck. He, and it, bore the name proudly.
He loved driving. He loved the freedom of spinning round the streets of Lagos without having to run after moving buses with 50,000 other people. However, there was one striking disadvantage of being mobile in this way. The policemen.
As Zibby approached the popular keke roundabout, he noticed 3 men in black lurking by the side of the road, their long ancient-looking guns at the ready.
Not me. Come on… not me… not today…
One of the policemen stepped ever so slightly onto the road and motioned for Zibby to stop. He considered speeding past, but quickly checked that risky thought. He pulled over to the right, a few seconds before the impromptu checkpoint.
“Good afternoon officer!” he said, cheerily.
The policeman peered into the jeep, expecting a standard transaction to occur. Five seconds passed, in which Zibby simply stared at the officer, and he stared back. The man frowned. This was clearly going to be a difficult customer.
“Your licence and particulars!” the officer barked.
Zibby flicked open the glove compartment and produced the vehicle’s papers. The policeman examined them for longer than he needed to, and then said, “Licence nko?”
Zibby swallowed hard.
“Oga, I’m sorry, I forgot it at home.” Zibby was telling the truth. “I live just 10 minutes away and rushed out to do a few things nearby.”
The officer knew he had the upper hand. If he was ever going to extract a ‘tip’ from this one, now was the time.
“Park well!” he barked.
Zibby had left his engine running, and once more contemplated flooring the accelerator. Instead, he brought the car fully into the nearby parking area and turned off his engine. Why did he forget that pesky licence?!
Now, Zibby knew the law well. He was studying Law at the University of Lagos. He was aware that he had a number of days in which to produce a valid licence, and that it was no crime for him to drive without being in physical possession of one. He calmly opened his door and stepped out.
“Oga, please, I’m just trying to get home. I live 10 minutes away.”
“Is that why you forgot your licence?”
Zibby sighed. He knew what the officer really wanted, but was not willing to part with one kobo. He did not intend to fuel the culture of checkpoint exploitation.
“You know this is a very serious offence?” the officer continued.
Actually, I know it’s not. Zibby thought. Then, rather unwisely, said aloud “Doesn’t the law say…”
“Oh?! You want to quote law for me?” shrieked the policeman. “Sule! Sule!” His colleague slowly made his way towards the pair of them. “Sule, this one thinks he’s a lawyer!”
“I am a law student, actually” said Zibby. He still hadn’t learned when to shut up.
“Then we will show you what we do to law students!” responded the man in black sharply. “Sule, enter the front! Oya, law student, enter your car!”
“Officer, sorry, please…”
“You can’t beg the corpse after the head has been cut off!” shouted the incensed man.
What does that even mean? thought Zibby, before succumbing to a rising sense of panic. He quickly weighed up the options in his mind. He could enter the car with a decidedly unfriendly-looking Sule, and find himself escorted to a police station where an uncertain fate would await him. Alternatively, he could make a dash for his car, and risk being shot down and tagged as an ‘escaping armed robber’. Or…
“Have a good day sir! Don’t forget your licence again!” The man in black grinned and saluted with one hand, a twenty naira note stuffed securely into his trouser pocket.
Zibby looked in his rear mirror, as he drove off, muttering angrily to himself.
I can’t take much more of this...
------
Zibby cruised down University Road in his Peugeot 305, the sun shining brightly through the windows causing narrow streams of sweat to roll down his back. He had inherited the car from his mum and though it was pretty old, he was proud of it. His friends called it ‘the jeep’, which was short for ‘jalopy’ – a wreck. He, and it, bore the name proudly.
He loved driving. He loved the freedom of spinning round the streets of Lagos without having to run after moving buses with 50,000 other people. However, there was one striking disadvantage of being mobile in this way. The policemen.
As Zibby approached the popular keke roundabout, he noticed 3 men in black lurking by the side of the road, their long ancient-looking guns at the ready.
Not me. Come on… not me… not today…
One of the policemen stepped ever so slightly onto the road and motioned for Zibby to stop. He considered speeding past, but quickly checked that risky thought. He pulled over to the right, a few seconds before the impromptu checkpoint.
“Good afternoon officer!” he said, cheerily.
The policeman peered into the jeep, expecting a standard transaction to occur. Five seconds passed, in which Zibby simply stared at the officer, and he stared back. The man frowned. This was clearly going to be a difficult customer.
“Your licence and particulars!” the officer barked.
Zibby flicked open the glove compartment and produced the vehicle’s papers. The policeman examined them for longer than he needed to, and then said, “Licence nko?”
Zibby swallowed hard.
“Oga, I’m sorry, I forgot it at home.” Zibby was telling the truth. “I live just 10 minutes away and rushed out to do a few things nearby.”
The officer knew he had the upper hand. If he was ever going to extract a ‘tip’ from this one, now was the time.
“Park well!” he barked.
Zibby had left his engine running, and once more contemplated flooring the accelerator. Instead, he brought the car fully into the nearby parking area and turned off his engine. Why did he forget that pesky licence?!
Now, Zibby knew the law well. He was studying Law at the University of Lagos. He was aware that he had a number of days in which to produce a valid licence, and that it was no crime for him to drive without being in physical possession of one. He calmly opened his door and stepped out.
“Oga, please, I’m just trying to get home. I live 10 minutes away.”
“Is that why you forgot your licence?”
Zibby sighed. He knew what the officer really wanted, but was not willing to part with one kobo. He did not intend to fuel the culture of checkpoint exploitation.
“You know this is a very serious offence?” the officer continued.
Actually, I know it’s not. Zibby thought. Then, rather unwisely, said aloud “Doesn’t the law say…”
“Oh?! You want to quote law for me?” shrieked the policeman. “Sule! Sule!” His colleague slowly made his way towards the pair of them. “Sule, this one thinks he’s a lawyer!”
“I am a law student, actually” said Zibby. He still hadn’t learned when to shut up.
“Then we will show you what we do to law students!” responded the man in black sharply. “Sule, enter the front! Oya, law student, enter your car!”
“Officer, sorry, please…”
“You can’t beg the corpse after the head has been cut off!” shouted the incensed man.
What does that even mean? thought Zibby, before succumbing to a rising sense of panic. He quickly weighed up the options in his mind. He could enter the car with a decidedly unfriendly-looking Sule, and find himself escorted to a police station where an uncertain fate would await him. Alternatively, he could make a dash for his car, and risk being shot down and tagged as an ‘escaping armed robber’. Or…
“Have a good day sir! Don’t forget your licence again!” The man in black grinned and saluted with one hand, a twenty naira note stuffed securely into his trouser pocket.
Zibby looked in his rear mirror, as he drove off, muttering angrily to himself.
I can’t take much more of this...
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