The problem with being an artist is that
you see art in everything, even in misery. When my friend postponed her
death by surviving a surgery, I complained that the surgeon’s cut was
not as cute as I would have liked. She giggled like a fellow fool,
saying that the knife was too blunt for fine art.
So
it was natural that I found artistic fascination in the histogram of
jerry-cans telling a familiar story at the filling station. Yellow
jerry-cans, then blue, red, black, yellow, yellow, yellow. Too many
yellows, then a few browns, their white backgrounds gossiping their
custody of generational dirts. Long like an electoral queue in Kano
State, the jerry-cans looked like obedient dwarfs, colourful in their
portrayal of a hopeless waiting.
At
4pm, my car had joined its colleagues in the long symmetry of patience
at that Mobil station. Some twenty minutes later, my tyre had done just
about a quarter of a circle and no more. I plucked my own jerry-can from
the trunk of the car to go inspect the state of affairs around the
dispensing pump. It was a shocking sight of restless humanity, a fuel
herd!
Commotion. Curses..post by expdonaloaded.blogspot.com.. Analyses: Of
Jonathanian failure, Subsidy, and Change. It was a hyena affair,
complete with noisome cluster and fights. The queues were mere fanciful
stagnations neglected over the reward of might: purchase was wrestled,
not conducted. I had stood aloof for two long, unfit for application in
this violent commerce. Then I saw her, a lady who had taken her own
jerry-cans out of her car trunk just an hour ago, when I took mine. She
was coming out from the thickness of the Herd, cutting through the
beehive of pulsating humanity, triumphant, flanked by two huge
jerry-cans of fuel. She was apparently the richest human among us.
Her
triumph was sufficient indictment for my detachment. I therefore
inserted myself in the midst of the Herd, mustering as much roughness as
I could get. Spatters of spit, armpit fumes, mouth odour, and some
unmistakable tangs of liquor all issued from that unwholesome public
intimacy. The corruption of breath reminded me of Tom-Tom’s new
commercial: “What are you breathing?” “Stench!”, I admitted inwardly,
and removed myself. It was now past 7pm.
Area
Boys – their kegs went over the heads of the Herd, burrowing their way
into the tip on the nozzle. “Ibraheem!”, they’d yell. The fuel
attendant, he had become a celebrity of fuel scarcity. Occasionally he
pushed and shoved, kicked and elbowed, until the accretion of human
hands tugging at him had been shaken off, their owners torn between
catching themselves and catching their kegs.
Night.
By now we had become a new entity: community. “Community is a group of
people living together with shared interests…”, said my Sociology
lecturer..post by expdonaloaded.blogspot.com A Fuel Herd, we had become an instant community boasting
shared space, the identity of fuel stampede, and kegs, united by our
common predation of one another. Yet there was that Lagosian spirit of
enacting friendships – we readily forged temporary relationships: “Watch my keg Bro, I dey your back.” “Abeg make I put my jerry-can for your boot, make I use your turn buy my own, I don dey here since 2 o’clock.” “Shey dem say Dangote wan buy Arsenal?“
Humanity!
Soon
the lights went off. Ibraheem and his co-attendants disappeared into
the Manager’s Office, whispering commercial whispers, taking
monopolistic decisions. Minutes later, the lights came back on. Ibraheem
emerged from the venue of conspiracy, his head cocked up to let his
bottle water empty into his belly through his veiny throat, in lumps of
aquatic greed. He poured the remaining water on his head, wiped his
face, and declared: “E don finish. Tomorrow make una come.“
We
lingered on, hopeful. Hopeful. Hopeless. Gradually, the Herd dispersed
into unlit streets, into domestic frustrations of absent electricity.
Shortly, a fellow, seeing my qualification for sympathy in attitudes of
exhaustion, accosted me. “Make you get peshense, you go buy. Bring your car come inside, park am close to that pump. Just wait make this people go finish.” I was going to grease his palm. His was a lucrative sympathy, I knew.
The
lights went off again. The flight of light sent the remnant members of
the Herd packing, erecting the convenience for clandestine transactions.
My fuel gauge had earlier read ‘Danger’. Sweat factory that I am, my
previous night was spent virtually in my bathroom, evacuating endless
perspiration that kept sleep at bay. This planned nocturnal corruption
was my only hope of a sound sleep and presence at work today. It worked,
and fast too!
Corruption is one of the fastest agencies of speed.post by expdonaloaded.blogspot.com
With
eleven thousand Naira, the car tank, with my jerry-can, was filled to
the brim. My hope of a week exemption from this madness is guaranteed in
Toyota’s fuel economy. I took a photo of the fuel indicator that showed
my new affluence, and used the picture as my DP: it has come to that!
By
9:29 pm, I left for home. Ongoing construction has beaten the Okota
road into a thorn of stones, warranting a slow, cautious vehicular
motion. At Last Bus Stop, a group of Keke drivers had gathered, watching
two of their own trade mutual punches. The duo ran from one corner of
the road to the other, like Mayweather and Manny, devising strategy and
manouvre. My car was already too close and, before I could escape the
scene, the one shuffling backwards was stopped by the bonnet. His
assailant quickly found eureka, lay him properly on the bonnet, a hand
to a neck, and began a regime of vicious pummelling. I reckoned the
danger to my windscreen, reckoned that the floor would better serve the
purpose of their business. Quickly, the gear lever went to ‘R’, and I
retrieved the bonnet from under the back of Manny. They readily demoted
themselves to the ground, where their aspiration for mess was helped by
the abundance of mud. The crowd cheered…
At
home, the generator got busy while I went into my study room, to read a
few lines before going to bed. Incidentally the book on the desk bared
its mischievous title, one which summarised my notion about Nigeria.
“There Was A Country”, read the title. I fixed a gaze upon that title,
wearing a sad, knowing smile. It was sufficient reading for the night. I
turned over the pages of my mind to process the voluminous detail
provoked by that title, and simply left my study and went to bed.
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