The driver, without kissing the last lap of my destination, dislodged me at a not favored joint, where even the transporters feared. Right there I stood on the pedestrian drenched and waiting for never-to-come motorcyle, kabokabo which to my thinking was still functional, to ferry me finally to my abode. Never knew I was a fool at twenty-five as the new law in town had already swept the cyclists off the street. Empty street. Machine deserted. Just like that! Commercial motorcyclists were of course dislodged giving way for cabs and the newly assissted tricycle Keke Napeps which to be precisely accurately describable, were scarcely seen, that is, if they ever exist at all. Only the passing and re-passing of fleet of cars fed my half-damaged eyes and, their terribly zooming sounds troubled my lost-but-found ears. Some at enjoyably bourgeoisie pace, others at tirelessly proletarian pace they moved to the unknown. I murdered miserably some couple of hours before a yellowish unspatial three-legged cycle gave me a pitiful stop. I quickly leaped in and assumed a not-very considerable space at the backseat, for it was, describing it situationally, the survival of the fittest. My hanky was a saviour to my wet body. Sitting uncomfortably though but I was like, to put it more charitably, a son of a creator. Dr M Babangida Aliyu, might have succeeded in banning commercial motorcycling in Niger State, but the big question lingers: Ameliorating the sufferings of the people?
Posted on: Sun, 26 Jan 2014 22:09:10 +0000
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