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On my way home recently, I was attacked at Ojota while in traffic. This will be the third time it’s happening. The usual culprits would always demand for money and threaten to break my car windows or remove my side mirrors.
After the first encounter, I devised a means to hurt the next one, who dares launch an attack on me. When possible, I’ve had to stay back at work for about 2-3 hours after my regular closing time to allow for the usual traffic in that axis to ease off.
Sometimes, with the guidance of Google map, I would venture on the road, but the lawlessness of many road users is often the bane of the predictability of the navigation tool. So, I often arm myself with one of the most basic but potentially lethal objects. While the aim is not to kill, I’m prepared to maim the next assailant permanently.
On this day, as the urchin approached my car in the heavy traffic, he demanded I should give ‘them’ money, else he would break my car’s side mirror.
Few metres before that spot, I had brought out my weapon, so I was well prepared to take him out. But then, I glanced down at his frame, immediately my adrenaline rush of anger dissolved into pity and compassion. He wore the typical dark lips of a chronic smoker. His worn T-shirt would pass for an engine oil-soaked uniform of a roadside mechanic. The prominence of his chiseled zygomatic bones betrayed the long-standing penury that he’s plagued with. He probably was wondering about my fascination with his person. His bewilderment at my unfazed posture was apparent.
Like a hungry lion that he thought himself to be, the urchin charged at me once more, looking over his right shoulder across the road divide, he was taking some clues from his partner a few meters away…
At that point, I could pick that he wasn’t at ease; apparently he got the hint that police were under the bridge just about 50 metres ahead. So, instead of giving him the blow that would further maim his already dented frame, I lowered the object, rolled up the glass and waved my hand in a manner of saying ‘no’.
The guy stepped backwards, then turned… My gaze darted down his pair of shorts, the helm had a rent, and the old chino has fully returned to the farm where its wool was grown.
The traffic moved, at first a little, then steadily the vehicles ahead all moved and I throttled along, alone unharmed and overwhelmed with lovely hatred.
I was soaked in the compassionate elixir that melted my pre-planned intent to hurt another man in self-defence. I was at the same time very bitter, thinking of the possibility of what might have happened had he succeeded in his bullish attempt at taking from me what he did not work for. And the height of my anger was at the very thought of how many people who have fallen victims, and those who may become preys of such dangerous men on the streets. I thoughtfully asked myself, whose fault was it how these guys turned out?
I heard in my head the many voices of fellow citizens chorusing, ‘it is the government!’ In my visual field, I saw numerous fingers pointing at the governor of Lagos State, Mr Babajide Sanwo-Olu. “…It’s the politicians, they’re the do-no-good who are responsible for all the ills in our society,” a voice said.
These were the easiest answers, and I must confess, I joined the chorus. Let’s blame the government and the politicians. Period!
I almost settled into this self-conceited finger pointing but I was suddenly brought back to the reality, our reality. The Google voice had reminded me I would be making a right turn after about 600 metres, soon after I had left the traffic congestion. Just when I heard the machine say ‘make a right turn into Demurin Street in 100 metres’, a commercial bus from nowhere just parked across the service lane on Ikorodu Road at Ketu, loading passengers going to Mile 12 and Ikorodu.
Again, I was there for like 70 seconds. During this seeming finitely little time, vehicles had started piling up into twenties… and the driver of the bus and his conductor acted as if nothing was happening. So also were the commuters benefiting from such completely senseless act. At that instant, I honestly could not in good and clear conscience align with the co-travellers in my head and those who had invaded my mind’s eyes in blaming the government and politicians for our woes. While their portion will be reserved for them, we must be brave enough to look in the mirror at our own reflection.
So, I decided there and then to ask myself the reason I was not one of those guys, who lurked in the traffic to harass ‘innocent’ drivers, by threatening them to part with their money or phones?
My left cheek was too cheeky to tell me it’s because I am a doctor. But before it could finish, my right cheek checked in to remind me that I was not born a doctor.
The enduring voice of my father… In the moment, some parts of my growing up came to the cinema, and instead of secreting another bile against the animalistic attitude of the bus driver and his passengers; I spent the little time to indulge myself in the replay of a fraction of my own childhood.
Growing up, fourth of seven siblings, children of a taxi driver dad and a petty trader mum, I once fell through the cracks to live on the streets, on more than one occasion. I had all the necessary arsenals to become a petty or hardened criminal. I could have continued on the street, enjoyed its petty perks only to later wear its thorny crown.
There were many forces that I could have easily succumbed my will to and then, go on to become the king on the streets. But against them all was a single yet resilient voice of my father through which he had sown the seed of education as the key to success in life.
In those days of dark shadows over my young mind, my father’s voice endured. When the going was really good and he was still fully in-charge of us as his wards, he would teach us the importance of education, citing the examples of a few in our hometown whom we should model our aspirations after.
For me, I reckon I had a special place in the hearts of my parents. They both had taken time to demonstrate their affection towards me… and those deeds too endured when the dark side of life seemed to have encircled my young being.
From wherever I woke up outside of my parents’ or granny’s house, I would still find a way to get to school, even though I always missed the assembly and the first lesson.
The enduring voice of my father was like multitudes of fireflies illuminating my dark world and guiding me toward the great illumination that academic success represents.
Dad lived in Lagos while the seven of us lived in the hometown with mum. His weekly or fortnightly visits were no longer enough a present. At some point, my parents began to experience the strains peculiar to such marriages where spouses lived some distance apart. All these were perfect condiments needed to mould me into any form of persona of choice.
The reassuring voices, nurture and directions of my parents endured above and beyond the dark forces that surrounded me. I can now imagine had my parents been completely irresponsible in their duties when they had the chance, I probably would have fallen for the society and become a bona fide street kid.
I asked myself, where was Governor Sanwo-Olu some 30 years ago in those my formative days? Where were the present day politicians when my father was instilling in me the importance of education and the unfailing benefits of being industrious?
If we would be sincere to ourselves as a people, we would realize that the home remains the best moulding platform to shape the sort of adults, leaders and politicians worthy of emulation.
Parents, you’re the most important guiding angels for your wards. Your voice will endure where others have been silent. Your love will be remembered when fake affections attempt to snatch away your young offspring.
If every parent plays his/her role well, we definitely will have less impish adults on the streets, and more conscientious men in our public service roles.
• Ibisola is a Lagos-based writer, poet and author.
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