How much do you sell your rights? by Ukamaka Olisakwe One Saturday morning, after a heavy downpour, I boarded a bus to Ariaria Market in Aba. The driver, a middle aged man conducted us with the flair of a polite air hostess. I was jarred by him, because I had become used to the unkind, harsh ways bus drivers went about their business, but here was a man, acting like he was taking us on an international flight. Was new to this profession? Was he new to town? His fare was cheaper too. According to him, the final destination was at the A-line gate of Ariaria Market. We waved that away because Aba drivers are notorious for disgorging their passengers at Samek Junction, some two hundred meters from the gate. We reached Samek Junction when we spotted him, in the drizzle, in full uniform, standing in the middle of the road, gun in one hand and the other stretched out to drivers’ side of buses as they crawled by, shoving whatever was folded into his palm by the drivers into his pocket without even looking. It is not unusual to find policemen standing at various junctions, collecting money from bus drivers. As a matter of fact, it had become the norm and was only a problem once, when the drivers revolted in 2009 because policemen raised the “tax” to N50, and at the same time, increased the number of “toll points”. The drivers revolted, but in all their glorious anger, they couldn’t physically battle with these officers who appeared each morning caressing their guns. They sought for an audience with the state governor, but that failed. They urged us to join them in their cause. We did not. So they refused to convey passengers for three days. On the first day, economic activity was almost crippled. The next day, the Aba people hopped onto the only other alternative, the Okada. By the third day, the disgruntled drivers returned to business with a simple solution: they increased the cost of transportation by N20. But that was a long time ago. We had gotten through without qualms. So this Saturday morning, as we rolled to where the officer stood in that light rain, our driver ignored the hand stretched toward him. Traffic was unmoving, meaning we just stood beside the police officer who stared at our driver as if he had seen something strange. He stretched the hand further. Our driver ignored him still. “Oga?” Our driver remained still. I was stunned by his bravery – or was it stupidity, tinged with flagrant mischief? There was the face, set bland, without ever flinching, not even by the sight of the gun, or the scrunched up face of the unruly officer. Someone muttered a curse from the back seat. The officer took the cue and went off in a bout of expletives. Soon his colleagues gathered from nowhere, screaming and frothing, like dogs held back by their leashes, waiting for the slightest provocation to attack proper. One of them said, “Bring your particulars!” The second officer said, ‘Park well! Park well!’ Our driver obliged them and handed over his documents. I wondered what went on in his mind. He was not smiling and he was not apologetic. He just kept a bland face, as if bored even. They pored through his documents. One minutes. Two minutes. Seconds more. The woman beside me said, “Just conquer the devil and give them that money.” She was the needed fire which sparked the mini revolution. ‘Oga, you are delaying us. Just give him the money.’ ‘You know these people. Avoid devil’s temptation and give him the money.’ The voices rose, drawing the attentions of the policemen. The driver pleaded for our patience, but the revolting voices were higher than his. The policemen, sensing this, took their time leafing through the papers, deliberately delaying, working on our impatience. Some of us tried to talk “sense” into the revolting others. But they also tried to convince us of how stupid it was for the driver not to have given to Caesar what belonged to Caesar. It wasn’t shocking any more, to find people using religious verses to justify a wrong. To them, N50 was nothing. It wouldn’t put food on the table; it would be frowned at in my church if the Pastor asked you to raise your offering for blessings and you flipped out that polymer note. So, why wouldn’t our driver just give that “nothing”? I stared at the driver. He was trying valiantly to withstand the forces from both sides. The woman beside me was the loudest. I began to imagine other passengers in other buses, urging the resilient drivers to pay up and save time. Lagbaja, in his response to Okey Ndibe, pointed out the “e no concern me’ syndrome prevalent among Nigerians. He called us the country of mumu. We see a wrong and turn the other eye. Or we even justify it, same wrong that turns around and shoot us in the leg. How many fights had we lost because of this? How many more would we lose? We had become our own misfortunes. It brought back the memories of a similar experience when I was fifteen. Dad and I were hauled to the police station because Dad refused to give a token to the police officers. After we were finally allowed to leave, I wondered: why Dad wouldn’t give a “common” N20, an amount that wouldn’t buy a bucket of garri? That day, I blamed it on poverty. But today, I thought differently. It was the little things that mattered; it was the little things that made the big things stand out. Here we were killing the little things. Possibly, there were other drivers who would have stood against police extortion, but their brevity was worn thin by the people who wouldn’t stand in solidarity with them. Hence the failed revolt. Hence the increase in transportation cost. Hence the impunity. But we do not see these things. Or they do not matter. Just then, the driver began to refund us N20 out of the N50 we had paid him. Nine people took it and got down. The rest of us stayed back. Maybe we stayed out of shame, or curiosity, or in solidarity. But we stayed. Moments later the policemen returned, with nothing against driver, they let us leave. As we drove off, our driver said, “thank you”, to us. He was smiling. Then he still got us to our final destination, as he had promised
Posted on: Sun, 11 Aug 2013 03:10:08 +0000
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