By ‘ladeji Popoola
It was a cold Friday morning in August, Durojaiye and his father arrived at the car park where Durojaiye would board a bus heading to Ibadan. Just before he departed, his father spoke to him. “Oyo town to Ibadan is less than an hour. You must act smart as you are no longer a kid. In a month, you will be sixteen; the exact age I travelled by ship to England to study Theology.” He also told him to hold his folder firmly. “University of Ibadan Post UTME examination is not for the weaklings, if truly you have studied hard, we shall see,” he added.
Now as the bus made off, he cried out, “Those Ibadan louts might attempt to snatch it from you, I mean your folder; they might think you keep money inside it. Keep it safe,” he added, waving to the bus as it disappeared into the early morning.
“I will act smart.” Said Durojaiye at the top of his voice as he peeped out through the window, now waving to his father who had turned homeward, “And I will remember the son of whom I am.”
The bus that conveyed Durojaiye and the other passengers who were mostly traders lumbered out of a dusty road and mounted a tarred road that led to Ibadan. Now the journey began.
The awful cry of some passengers woke Durojaiye up and dawned on him that he had dozed off. The driver had hit the brakes and the bus had screamed on a truck that almost sent them off the road. The passengers that claimed the back seats had begun to thank their heads. Some rained a ton of curses on the devilish driver that almost brought a bloody fate upon them. Durojaiye who sat next to the driver was bewildered. He asked the driver what was amiss.
“Don’t mind that mad Aboki, a descendent of monkey that called himself a driver. Anyway, everything is now fine, Akowe,” the driver replied as he turned the steering wheel.
As the journey continued, Durojaiye felt it many a time but at some point, the tedium he felt began to subside due to weird things he now saw by the roadside. Before, he thought traffic collision only existed as fiction and nothing more. But as he stared at the roadsides, reality struck him. He saw a burnt tanker; its head had been lost, its belly faced heaven and its tyres were burnt to reveal its big rims. Durojaiye’s mouth was wide opened.
He then began to envision how the accidents he saw might have occurred but the imagination was short lived as they came across a fresh accident; a truck had collided with a commercial bus and the bus was completely ruined. Some men in khaki were dragging people out of the deformed bus. Durojaiye began to quiver as their driver pulled over at the side of the road close to the scene of the accident.
“At least eight people are dead,” the driver said to Durojaiye who was now nursing cold fear.
The bloody scene kept replaying in his head, as the journey continued, Durojaiye couldn’t get rid of it. He remembered a line from a poem he had read in his Literature class. Mother prayed, child may you never walk when the road waits, famished. He closed his eyes gently and muttered amen two or three times under his breath.
Now the bus began to decelerate and halted close to a noisy market and passengers were jumping down hurriedly from the bus, some stretching their legs that had been under the discomfort of thrombosis.
“Akowe,” said the driver, “do you want me to carry you back to Oyo ni?” The driver had been calling Durojaiye Akowe ever since the journey began but before he replied his eyes came in contact with a huge billboard which carried an inscription. WELCOME TO IBADAN, THE CITY OF GOLDEN ROOFS. Then, he realized he had finally arrived at the city he had heard many terrible things about.
“Is this Ojoo?”
“This place is the only Ojoo in Ibadan,” said the driver wearily.
Durojaiye jumped down from the bus and from where he stood, he stared at the billboard again and again.
He turned to his right then to his left, he was confused. He began to rummage his folder and brought out a leaflet. He fixed his eyes on the address. He nodded and returned the leaflet into the folder. He turned to his left and headed towards a nearby car park. While he was on his way his phone rang from his trousers pocket.
“Yes, I`m at Ojoo. No, about to board a taxi.”
“Baba’s demand is too much, do this, do that, ah!” he murmured to himself.
As he was heading towards the car park, he saw a man smiling and beckoning to him. The man sat beneath a big yellow umbrella by the roadside, Durojaiye wondered what the smile and beckon could be about until he listened to what a speaker which was placed close to the umbrella was saying. “Ma bo ni’bi ao bose, Yahoo ofe, Google ofe, 2go ofe, facebook ofe, twitter ofe.” Durojaiye smiled and waved in negation to the man and walked away.
It was on the outskirts of Ibadan, Ojoo was as busy as an anthill. On each side of the roads, sellers displayed their merchandise to attract passers-by’s attention. The chatter of traders and shrills of vehicles’ horns made the strange land superfluously noisy. As he was heading towards the car park, he noticed some young boys and girls as they occupied the roads vending cold soft drinks, snacks, bread, and other petty goods. A girl caught his attention. The young, pale girl was chasing a bus that was in motion. He watched as the frustrated girl unleashed curses on the bus as it made off. Durojaiye felt for her; feelings of agony took over him. He was convinced; he now believed that Ibadan was not a fair place for those who dared to live inside it. He thought of those young girls and the beautiful hell they must be going through. He felt pity for those young boys and girls that were still turning their backs on their homes to find greener pastures in the cities.
To be continued next week!
Glossery
Aboki: Friend
Akowe: Student
Ma bo ni’bi ao bose, Yahoo ofe, Google ofe, 2go ofe, facebook ofe, twitter ofe: Come here, we will do it for you, Yahoo is free, Google is free, 2go is free, Facebook is free, Twitter, is free.
