My Uniform Makes Me A god~A Short Story | Benneth Nwankwo

You will agree with me that Lagos is an interesting city. To live a day in Lagos, Nigeria, without a story to tell is to never have lived.

For years, I have been a student of Lagos, studying Lagos and I have learned a lot. I am still, however, learning Lagos. This is a course one never graduates. When you think you are done, another topic springs out like mushroom and as a student of Lagos, you must learn. Alternative is to drop out.

I have learn-still learning about "Uniforms".

I saw it in one of those tabloid newspapers and as usual, like every other student of Lagos, gave it a dismissal as one of those editorials, badly written by a hungry journalist. I even described it as an awful and unenthusiastic jest. The writer must have had a terrible day, I had assumed.

Two weeks, four days, the assumed joke became news and simultaneously became a household discourse. It was no longer speculation, but a fact; Okada has been outlawed!.

That week, about 4pm, when the sky was gloomy, holding the promise of a heavy rain; I boarded a bus from Oshodi heading to Egbeda.

The Driver was at his peak, accelerating roughly 120km/h. The breeze played on my eyes and ears that I did not even hear the conductor calling for my balance.

Suddenly the vehicle slowed down. I looked ahead.

A band of policemen, at a check point, doing something distinctive .The were after the big fish. The motorcycle.

Our driver greeted one of them, he didn't even noticed. The man in uniform was in a serious and intimidating negotiation with a motorcycle rider, for which I presumed, the alternative of the negotiation would be impoundment of the motorcycle. The policeman talked with sneer and held a powerful look.

There were still mixing along when another motorcycle drove by. The rider acknowledged the men in uniform with two quick blasting of horn, accelerated, and I saw him no more.

Still observing, I couldn't believe what had just happened. Why make him a scared cow?. Then the gripping shock, gave way to rational thinking; I recalled that the motorcycle rider who had just passed, undisturbed, was habilimented in a T-shirt inscribed "Gallant Mopol", on his head, a khaki face cap. I was shocked, wondering if anyone in the bus, felt the harmless anger that shot through my eyes.

That night, in my bedroom, balanced on my bed, staring at the revolving ceiling fan making blur the blue bulb ahead of it; I allowed myself to be swayed by thoughts. I thought about the handful number of impounded motorcycle, stocked at the back of the police van. The submissive voice of a youthful fellow wailing and pleading as two uniform men dragged his motorcycle to their van. The undiluted shock when a motorcycle rider was accorded a triumphant pass, undisturbed.

Having thought so long, without even observing the sudden interruption of power by the PHCN, I concluded; my uniform makes me a god.

                                       ******

The sun was almost down, about time the day played its last card, signed out and give way for the night to sign in. It was a cool but noisy evening. Noise one of the constituent of Lagos, Nigeria. You can't escape its companionship.

I had just returned and was welcomed with the news of petrol scarcity. I promptly dismantled my tie, and dressed in a white long sleeve, black trouser, matching with a dusty black shoe; I hurried to backyard-where the generator and other mechanical equipment tenants-grabbed a ten litre blue container and zoomed off; running as fast as my legs could, picking my way to the nearest filling station.

Getting to the filling station, panting, trying to catch my breath; I was left in a daze. A long queue!.

A helpless fellow, I joined the queue. Who want to spend a night plagued by boiling heat and unforgiving Lagos mosquitoes?.

Fifteen minutes afterward, I counted the figures ahead of me. Thirty!. I shook my head in submissiveness, then I remembered my phone and earpiece that had comforted me with some solo music, throughout a five hour traffic gridlock while returning from work.

I scrolled through the playlist, searching for a befitting song that would ease my evening; it made a disturbing sound. Battery low!. I returned both to my pocket and cursed the air.

I glanced around. There were unusual happenings: three boys were playing with a small black container-apparently abandoned by a fellow who couldn't endure the herculean struggle for petrol.

A distance ahead, a man, potbellied, who looked like he might be pregnant, was talking disappointedly in a high tone. It seems he had endured enough.

Soon, he found apostles. Some drivers came out and joined him. Both men and women.

'I dey vex!'. The stocky man said. 'We dey produce oil but still dey beg for it'.

'My brother na so we see am'. A woman joined him.

'Na God go punish all those thieves wey call themselves our leaders'. The stocky man added, then smashed something on his left arm. I suspected it was an unfortunate mosquito trying to have a taste of his blood.

Soon resonating talks of bad governance and corruption held the environment. A woman highlighted why the upcoming election was imperative, told them her candidate and there was uproar. A slim man, too slim that he looked like a broom stick; asked her what she knew about politics, and suggested that she go home and look after her kids.

The woman enraged. 'Yeye man. See as him thin like stick. Abeg hold him breeze go carry him ooo!'.

Onlookers laughed.

The verbal exchange soon attracted some people. Both men and women looked on-apparently stress alleviated. People tap others and point at the spectacle.

'See witch!' the man began 'I pity your husband--that is if you get one--Ashawo!'.

'Mewitch?'. She beat her chest.

'Yes. Witch!'.

'I will show you mywitch-ness today!'.

It went like that until some men came over, trying to reason with the man. They told him he was a man, and should not reply every word thrown at him by a woman. Woman had power but their mouth.

The man couldn't listen. He continued and they dragged him away. The woman continued to shout, until she bought petrol and drove off angrily.

I examined the queue and took count again. Twelve!. Roughly one hour plus forty two minutes spent, I was still the thirteenth person.

Roughly two hours ten minutes, I took count to determine the progress being made. Seven!. I was partially relieved.

Another drama ensued. A man, with the help of his friend, sneaked in his yellow      container. The women noticed. They let out a verbal protest and soon the container was seen flying until it landed at the other side. The man left, with defeat written all over his face.

No one saw him again.

Twenty minutes afterwards, I surveyed the queue. Five more!. A slight excitement melted down my abdomen. Our people was right, "A patient dog eats the................There was a sudden hush. I looked around.

People behind, began to give way. I gaze on in horror. Emerging from the crowed, were two fierce looking men in their 30s, garnished with intimidating muscles and shoulders. I observed their clothing as I too gave way; they were soldiers.

They held a straight face as they marched gallantry to the pump with25 litre container each. Someone murmured behind, and one of them stopped; pranced all over the place like a hungry masquerade. No one talked.

When they left with their petrol, someone asked 'Is not madness that someone just walked in, didn't queue and proceeded to the pump, buys petrol and left?'.

No one answered. Except the simultaneous heavy hiss made by some women.

My uniform makes me a god.

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