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Just as you are
leaving your house on this journey, the first one that accosts you is
the house boy. “Abeg, sir, my mother no well for village. I need to
send am money, sir,” he says. You pause and scratch your memory in
search of what you gave him money for the last time: was it his mother
or grandmother’s burial? You have officially lost track of the various
domestic fleecing excuses. Last month, it was his sister, the month
before that it was his wife. Reluctantly, you peel unbudgeted naira
notes from your wallet like you are flipping through an uninteresting
annual report. “Thank you, sir,” he says, and you catch a glimpse of
smile. You don’t respond as you enter your car and tell the driver,
“Airport”.

At the estate gate,
the uniformed guards give you multiple salutes, and through the
wound-up window, their “Happy weekend, sir!” and “Anything for your
boys, sir?” filter in. They don’t lift the barrier; they wait for you
to shake body. Uniforms here are for begging or robbery-many for arm
twisting. You have already paid your estate dues, but you come home
late sometimes when they are the kings of the gate. They have the power
to make you spend the night outside your estate once it is past
midnight. You reach for your wallet as their salutations increase, as
if you are a newly minted army general. Tuale sir! Their dark goggles
and forest-green uniform remind you of ugly things you would rather
forget.

The vendor never
begs, but he never has change whenever you pay for your newspaper. So
you end up buying more than you want. You make a mental note to hold
the exact amount next time.

By a bend on the
road, a gang of crow-looking policemen raises their hunting AK47s. Boys
are not smiling and your heart is already residing in your mouth. You
might be lucky today and they won’t ask for your NYSC certificate if
you present all car-related papers. Nigerian Police are the smartest
when it comes to vehicular documentation. Sheepishly, you smile at the
one with eyes the colour of palm oil. OC Inspector is sitting far away
in a corner. “Oga sir, we dey here o. Happy weekend, sir. Your boys are
loyal, sir.” This is their version of Akwoba ada ba! You straighten up
and say you are loyal too, even as you curse his village chief, the
midwife that birthed him, etc, under your breath. The biggest beggars
in town are not budging because it’s Friday and weekend has begun.
“Oga, you no appreciate us standing here under the sun protecting you?”
You detect a small threat in his voice and you almost want to yell and
ask where they were hiding when armed robbers were doing Macarena down
the road the other night with Pump-Action. As you move further, a
gigantic cathedral rises from the corner. Bigger than Ogbe stadium,
larger than Madison Square Garden. It is still under construction but
very soon the speakers will be calling for donations and beggars will
waylay parishioners/pedestrians with God will reward you abundantly,
sir; God loves a cheerful giver, oga.

At the three-way
junction where confusion reigns supreme and you have to veer off to
Ikeja, a Yellow Fever traffic warden curls his fingers round a driver’s
squeezed naira note. The baton on his left hand waves you on. He is
only interested in okada riders and danfo drivers. At the junction
where Anthony kisses Maryland, the light is bound to put a full stop to
your journey. This is where Beggar’s Lane thickens. Many beggars here
just don’t beg; they trade goods for your alms. This is more dignifying
than outright begging. The white handkerchief is the product of choice.
You already have more hankies than a certain Pentecostal pastor, but
you say, “At least, he is working for his money” and buy one more. The
light is green and you pray that the driver won’t be caught in-between
the amber and red which will send a LASTMA official jumping on your car
hood like a Hollywood stuntman. You arrive at the airport and as your
driver helps retrieve your luggage from the boot, he clears his throat.
“Oga, I no get transport to come work on Monday,” he announces. “But I
just paid your salary!” you yell. “Oga, my father was not well; I
bought him medicine, abeg, sir”. You have no choice, if you want to be
driven on Monday.

“Arik or Aero, sir?”

“Neither,” you tell the tout but he won’t go away. He wants to help
you with your hand luggage and you say no. He is persistent and follows
you to the counter. “Oga, you no go do weekend for me?” You ignore him
to face the surly ‘Airport Counter Queen’ who says you are late and
won’t budge in giving you a boarding pass except you shake body-again.
And the scanning man threatens to seize your travel-size toothpaste
except you do weekend for him. You are sweating; a walk on Beggars Lane
is arduous. You arrive in Abuja safely and call your politician friend
whom you will be begging for a government contract, but he says he is
in his godfather’s house begging for a second term in office. This
Beggars Lane is endless, you say. “I beg your pardon,” he says.