DANFO CHRONICLES: Trouble in the afternoon
The rain was
relentless. I waited for it to stop so I could run out and catch a bus
to work, but like the molue, the Lagos rain does not stop: you have to
hold your breath and jump in. Inevitably, the conductors were charging
more that day, taking advantage of the rain, swelling their purse with
our misery. “Balende! 60naira! no change!” I hopped in.
The bus was packed,
and not one smiling face in the place. Rain dripped in from the side of
the windows, the doors, the floor of the bus, the roof. It was going to
be a wet ride.
“Money,” said the
conductor, addressing me even before I could sit. I gave him the 60
naira. What of it, it was only 10 naira more than the normal fare and
he did say it was 60 naira before I got in. I had fair warning, I could
afford it, I paid.
He turned to the fellow sitting behind me and the youth, dressed in Jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, sneaked him a 50 naira note.
“Mr man”, said the conductor, “Your money neva complete. Na 60 naira.”
The young man
turned a baleful look at the conductor. “Why?” he asked, reasonably.
“Why you wan cause trouble this fine afternoon? You know say ya money
na 50 naira and I give you 50 naira. Na today you be conductor? From
here to Obalende no be 50 naira? Why you no like peace? Why you see
fine day like this and you wan spoil am?”.
There was heft in
the voice, and an eagerness to back the heft up with violence if
necessary, even if not necessary. You could see that no matter his
affection for fine days, he was not the sort to pay 10 naira to avoid a
fight. The conductor, an expert in the psychology of violence like all
the breed, knew that this one would not back down. He looked him over,
“I no tell you say na 60 naira before you enter?” he shouted. But it
was only to show his ‘logo’, as my niece would say.
“And I dey ask you
why?” queried the brave lad. “Why and why and why”. On the last ‘why’
he turned to face the conductor, squarely, as they say.
All the bus was
silence as we listened to these titans debate the merits of an
additional 10 bucks for the rain. There was keen interest because,
depending on how the matter was resolved, the passengers would be
paying 10 naira more, or less. And this matters a great deal to these
people.
The conductor
hissed and turned to the next passenger who, sheepishly, handed over a
50 naira note too, looking away, taking a sudden interest in the rain
outside.
We waited for the
explosion. The conductor’s face tightened, but nothing happened.
Suddenly the bus wasn’t so cramped anymore and everyone commenced to
pay the normal rate of 50 naira. Everyone that is, except me. I had
committed a cardinal error: I had paid too soon.
As I neared my bus
stop, I wondered whether it would be wise to ask for my 10 naira back.
The conductor looked surly, counting his money. He looked like Shylock
counting his loses. It did not seem like the opportune time to be
asking for money back. Anyway, what do I need 10 naira for really? To
‘dash’ some beggar?
Yet why does bile keep rising up, filling my mouth?
As the bus stopped, I rose from my seat and went for the door.
“Oga,” said the conductor crustily, looking at me sideways, “collect ya
10 naira.”