By Oladeji Popoola
On this road you must have a million eyes,
Since the street has resolved to unleash grief,
On this road you must have a trillion eyes.
Akerekoro stretched out of bed. He stared into the still early morning through the window and heard the crow of a cock announcing the day. He knew the day would offer him nothing other than its enabling light. He felt somewhat depressed about his country. However, he had once stumbled upon J.F. Kennedy`s inaugural address on the internet and he had made some changes to a particular passage in his mind, he put it thus; Ask not what Nigeria can do for you, ask what you can do to save this corrupting land. The thoughts of all the bills he had to pay in the coming weeks came to his mind. This sent a chill down his spine. He also had received a call from his charming girlfriend, Ife. She was also asking for money. “I love this girl too much, but this billing is her problem. Today she wants iPhone X, tomorrow she wants expensive shoes. And Olamide Baddo has warned me through this song: WONMA, enh just that I will not hear.” He scratched his head as he said to himself.
He clad himself in a well starched shirt, tied his shoeslaces and armed himself with all sort of fetishes he had. He put his trust in them. They never failed him. Now he made a heavy sigh. He knew the nature of his job. He knew he may return to his bed or end up behind the bar. He felt weary and sank into his bed. “There is no cause for panic as long as your Babalawo is alive no impediment on your way.” His mind assured him. He stood up and brought out a pod of an alligator pepper from his pocket, he carefully picked seven seeds out of it and began to chew, saying to himself “I, Akerekoro, alias Small-But-Bitter have nothing to panic about, if they say they will apprehend today, surely it is tomorrow they will apprehend.”
Now he stood at the threshold of his room reciting some incantations in silence. He now believed he was no longer alone, he could see all the forces of the earth repelling all possible impediments on his way. He burst into a short sinister laughter.
Walking elegantly, he made for the gate of his house where a bike man awaited him. No exchange of verbal greetings, they only shook hands. He would not dare to talk at this moment; a charm may begin to work by mistake. He knew this. He knew his potent fetishes.
The bike lifted them into the city. They stood beside the road waiting for no one in particular. But surely they were waiting for something, something to put smile on their faces, something to put good cloths on them and mouth — a deity, something to appease it when it began to send emissary for its sacrifice. So they were waiting, their eyes roving around like that of an eagle searching for a doomed prey. At Challenge Ibadan where they chose as port of call to begin their daily mission was just witnessing the opening of banks and bustling of activities.
Yetunde Adeyemi, a fresh University graduate who had walked the earth searching for a job which all her effort to secure one ended in futility had picked up the idea of running a POS Business which many preferred to call ‘PAGA’. Yetunde scuttled out of a bank by the roadside, baffled by the gridlock before her. She was deeply saddened by what seemed like a line of soldier ants, lumbering forward in a tiresome procession. Yetunde sighed. She looked into her handbag; the stacked notes of one hundred thousand naira and a POS machine she had dropped there lay unperturbed. She zipped it up.
Staring at the traffic, how she would get to Secretariat to pay gratitude to her Aunt who advised her and borrowed her money to kick-start the POS business baffled her. She thought of taking Keke-Napep, but instantly she turned down the thought. She knew its three wheels had denied it the pedestrian way. She could not but take a bike. She now gestured to a bike in the distance. The bike emerged and an athletic woman who seemed to have spent too much of her time in the gridlock attempted to hijack the bike from her. But Yetunde, a slim and agile twenty-two-year-old lady was quick enough. She climbed the bike and the bike sped into the daylight.
Yetunde sat behind Akerekoro. She saw nothing bad in sharing a bike seat with strangers, especially male strangers. What she would not assent to was this notion of a man sitting behind her; it was only Kunle, her boyfriend that the honour was meant for.
They were at Beere when the bike came to a halt on a plausible excuse the bike man gave; Yetunde saw nothing bad in it when the bike man said he wanted to Urinate. Akerekoro and Yetunde came down from the bike sharing no word. Beere had already gained its busy-life. Honk of Taxis flew into that of Keke-napep. The conductors of the buses painted with cream and brown were shouting at the top of their voices ‘Oje! Gate!’ Yetunde was baffled again. It was already close to five minutes the bike man had gone leaving the bike behind. What still held her to the bike was because when they were at Molete the bike man had pleaded with her for the three-hundred Naira she agreed to pay to buy petrol. It was just three-hundred naira, but Yetunde could not part with it. She knew it was a chicken change but the strangling hand of recession on Nigerian economy and the unwelcomed guest, COVID-19 that had made earth synonymous to hell could not allow her. She waited, staring at the statue of Iba Oluyole and into the sprawling roads and passers-by. She stared at the bike in burning anger. The bike man arrived. She climbed the bike after Akerekoro and the journey began again.
They had not paced for a minute when the bike man begin to converse with Akerekoro. Yetunde was displeased with the bike man. She chose not put her mouth in what they were saying.
“Sister why you dey vex nah?” the bike man said in a gentle voice that ferried plea.
“Why won`t I, you should have spent a year there urinating,” she hissed.
“Don`t vex nah,”said the bike man.
Akerekoro knew if they waited a minute more before they carried out their mission, the mission might fail. He feigh a cough and he bike man equally understood the code.
“Sister, what is inside your bag?” asked Akerekoro
She wished she could query the question but she found herself saying Money and machine.
“Give me the bag,” said Akerekoro, calmly.
Silence.
“The bag!” Yetunde stuttered
“Yes!” he replied.
She could not figure it out yet. As though sense had eluded her, she felt empty as she went helter-sketer on the road. As though someone had now slotted her brain into her head, she started recollecting. “Go and buy salt…,” she remembered the last words of the bike man. “Salt! Salt!!” she burst into tears. Like a run-off, it flew down from her face and she almost drenched in it. Her handbag, POS machine and one hundred thousand Naira were gone. As she quivered by the roadside in grim silence, she tried not to accept it was a nightmare.
