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Bolekaja

ll hail the Bolekaja, the king of the road. Puffing smoke, spitting fire, hooting loudly along in a wobbly way, a crayfish on a mission with only one headlight and a broken windscreen, this is the Bolekaja. The driver and his conductor have sworn to keep this ride one to remember. Men, women, children and goods are loaded on board an over-flowing contraption. The Bolakaja rules and reigns by its own rules; it stops, picks up and drops off passengers where it wants, anywhere it wishes and whenever it desires. It is the archetype of national transition, the very same which constantly recedes.

The agbero calls passengers to come with a husky and heavy voice, his chewing stick reshaping his lips as spittle drifts and sputter. "Yaba straight, Yaba!" "Yaba straight, Oyingbo no enter oh!" The Bolekaja can never be rushed; it moves slowly and stops anywhere there is a passenger waiting. It leaves behind a long traffic of anxious vehicles and other road users, the Keke Maruwa, a motley of Okada operators, assorted vehicles sourced from every part of the world, and fearful pedestrians. However, the Bolekaja will not be deterred, its path laden with large hopes and a huge appetite for profit. "Hold you change as you enter or I will marry you with the other guy." Everyone is welcome for as long as they are ready to pay.

"Mama, that load is fifty naira."

"Ah my husband let me pay twenty naira."

""Mama, it is fifty or you get out of the way for my passengers to enter. Let them in and get your load off the bus."

"Okay I will pay, I will pay forty naira."

"Get out; get out now before I throw you out mama."

"You are not a good person, you this boy with smelly mouth."

"Just get your load and get down."

"Greedy and stupid boy. Is that how you talk to your mama? Okay I will pay."

"Let me have the money."

"Is it not Indian helm and ogogoro you will spend the money on?" She handed him the cash.

The Bolekaja is on a roll and the gates of the state shall not prevail against it. It sneaks down the busy street and cuts in and out of traffic with brutal efficiency, but then ahead is a police checkpoint with four officers manning it. The driver and the conductor exchanged words.

"Conductor, give them fifty naira."

"They did not accept fifty naira the last time."

"Those thieves are shameless fools, never satisfied with little."

"Particularly that big-stomach inspector, he is the real thief."

"They are all armed robbers, just give them one hundred naira and let us move on."

As the Bolekaja approaches the police checkpoint, the sergeant stretches out a twisted hand as the conductor slips the folded notes into his palm. Most passengers look away from the exchange while two or three passengers hiss in disgust: "Lowlife thieves. If they are not collecting toll they will be robbing banks." "Look at the fat and shapeless inspector with big, shapeless head; he is nothing but a thug.

*

As the Bolekaja reaches Idumota bus stop all hell is let loose as the rushing, shoving and pushing for the few remaining seats on the bus plays out. The door of the bus is assaulted and it hold several people who struggle to enter, but no one is able to get in; the struggle and shoving provides the right opportunity for the teams of pickpockets to operate. As two members block the door, two, three expertly dip their hands into the pockets of unsuspecting passengers anxious to get into the bus and tired of waiting at the bus stop. The pickpocket travel into purses, pockets, bags, wrists and necks fishing for cash, wristwatches, rings, earrings, necklaces and any other item reachable. Cries of "my money, my money," "where is my purse?" "My chain is gone," screams another victim of Area Boys. The driver and conductor know the Area Boys who operate at the Idumota bus stop very well. Idumota is the melting pot for street urchins, thugs, itinerant pickpockets, on-the-move miscreants, street reprobates, and the like. All of them work and operate effectively and with impunity around the Lagos Island, itself a microcosm of the local council, the state and the nation. If you have seen the Bolekaja, then you have seen the state.

*

Calm soon returns to the bus as everyone counts his/her loss. No sooner had the bus settled into its rhythm when a voice booms down the space of the bus. The passengers are all startled and brought alive again. "Let the lucky man or woman of today raise up his or her hand. This is indeed your lucky day. What I have for you today is very special. Look at it here. Can you see down there? Mummy who sits right at the back window, can you see it? This is your solution for rashes, pile or jedidi, measles, chicken pox, cholera Onigbameji, baldness, aches and pains," the traveling trader has taken over the Bolekaja. All attention now directed at him and he is the front and centre of a new scheme. Truth be told that he is not alone; his sidekicks are in front, in the middle and at the back of the bus ready to hip praise on the great potency of the fake drug their master hawks across the city.

"Did I see your hand up at the back?"

"Yes, bring two his decoy yells loudly from the back of the bolekaja. I bought one from you last month and have been hoping I will meet you again. The drug works wonders."

"Give me one, another yells."

"Let me have two over here sir."

"My daughter used it and now we all use it; please give me four."

"This may be your last chance to get this wonderful product, and I have just a few left," a nearly full big beside him tell a different story, but in this business the lies are told to the advantage of the trader and heavy disadvantage to the buyer. More calls for this dubious product ring out among the plebeians eager to avoid all sorts of diseases and sickness that this wonder drug has claimed to cure.

*

The conductor is now collecting bus fares from the front. Each passenger delivers fifty naira each until the conductor is offered thirty naira by a young man standing in the middle of the bus.

"What is this?" "What is this?" "Maybe you de craze"

"It is� it is my fare," the passenger murmurs.

"This is your fare eh? My friend your fare is fifty naira."

"I am sorry I only have thirty naira. I entered at Oyingbo."

"I don't care where you entered, just pay me in full."

"That is all I've got."

"That is all you've got?" A punch landed on the chin of the passenger before he could respond to the question. Another punch followed and a fight ensued. Despite the fact that the fight has developed into a brawl between his conductor and the passenger the driver goes on driving. The journey cannot stop and must not stop, and there are interests to be served and protect on this trip. The passenger is now on top of the conductor punching away. He has left a gash on the head of the conductor, who is fighting hard to free himself and get up, but nobody will intervene or separate them; nobody is willing to insert himself/herself into a roforofo fight that could lead to blood letting as the fight goes on. The chaos and confusion is a national pastime and winners and losers emerge all around.