October 2002 Issue - Essay # 10
Jaywalker
in J Town
By Crispin Oduobuk
|
I
take a deep breath and plunge in. Drama unfolds. It feels like it's
rolling in slow-motion but this is the morning rush traffic on Bauchi
Road, Jos, Nigeria, and I'm in real danger of being run over. Horns
blare, breaks screech, curses rain and fists are shaken my way but
there's no stopping me--I'm trudging on. The
chilly wind howls at me and threatens to freeze my feel-good sensation.
Yet I can't be beat. I've got my chin up. My heart is aglow. And to the
tune of Sting's one-time chart-topping song, "Englishman in New
York," I'm crooning, "I'm a jaywalker in J Town." Nerves
now jumpy like the hormones of a teenager, I make it to the concrete
road divider--an island in the torrent of abuse by motorists--and
draw another deep breath. Since
I'm a twenty seven year-old adult (and even considered to be of sound
mind), why I should be jaywalking in Jos and feeling good about it
would make rather poor reading were it to appear in an obituary: He died
while trying to photograph the rising sun in the middle of rush-hour
traffic. But I'm not dead yet. Adrenaline is pumping high, and I'm on a
roll. Playfully
goose-stepping on the divider, I raise my camera and take aim at the
reason why I have forsaken common sense and placed my life at risk. Yes,
it is the rising sun, now lazily struggling to be seen above the city's
northern skyline. A jagged potpourri of church spires, mosque minarets,
old and new buildings and trees do their best to obstruct my view.
Nevertheless, I shoot away. For
me, there is something mystical, even spiritual, about the sun just
edging out or dying down. The
previous night had welcomed me to Jos with cold arms. Enveloped in the
darkness, the frosty city had slept quietly while the wind wailed with
an eeriness that spooked the mind. It had seemed then that the sun would
be on vacation for a century. While chiding myself about the absurdity
of such a notion, I had felt an involuntary shudder run through me at
the prospect of witnessing a truly dark age. As
the new day ignites, Bauchi Road, already agog with madness, is taking
on more than its fair share of everything. Bus conductors are coaxing
everyone toward Dadin Kowa. Two-wheel truck pushers hold sway like their
four-wheel cousins. Luggage carriers try to grab every piece of item--for a fee, of course. And I'm carelessly taking pictures from the road
divider while motorists wish me dead. Yet
it is with a motorist that I strike my first bargain of the day. "I
want you to take me around the town and some places on the
outskirts," I say to a nice-looking chap in a not-too-nice Peugeot
taxi-cab. "Where
exactly?" "Within
the town, Bukuru, Rayfield, and Shere Hills." He
gives it a thought then scowls. "Two thousand." "No.
Too much," I protest. "I'll pay one thousand." "Oga,
you know I have to buy fuel from the black market," he whines. "Even
then. One thousand is okay." "Okay,
Oga, one-five. Make we go." "'Oga',
one-two done do. Make we go." The
driver smiles, leans over and pulls a clasp that somehow springs the
passenger side door open. He had thought by calling me 'Oga'--Nigerian
speak for 'Boss'--I would be too ashamed to bargain further.
As it didn't work, we are now comrades of sorts. For
a travel reporter, wrangling with taxi drivers comes with the job. But
once the matter is settled amicably, one often goes on to enjoy their
company. Today
I am blessed to have this savvy fellow who introduces himself as Ishaya.
As we wing through the old railway terminus--a remarkable beehive--he tells me he used to work with a private airline that has gone under.
Taxi duty is food on the table, rent money, and more. I
listen to Ishaya's chronicle. He is married, with three kids. His wife
is a nurse at the Catholic-run Our Lady of Apostle Hospital. His kids--two girls aged nine and eight, and a six-year-old boy--attend a
primary school in the heart of the city. While
we curve up Ahmadu Bello Way, I describe my unattached, nomadic life.
Ishaya wonders what life on the road is like. I tell him it's anything
but the cosy comfort of his home. He chuckles. As
we go by ancient buildings housing ancient companies with ancient names
on the upper side of Ahmadu Bello Way, I sense the city waiting,
seemingly in suspended animation. I also feel as if my heart is getting
set to fall in love with something or someone.
While
I am quite thirsty to learn what J Town has in its bowels, I'm hopeful
of other unknown but good things too. Maybe it has to do with the
country's mood. This is August of 1999. The military are back in the
barracks, at last, after more than a decade and a half in power.
President Olusegun Obasanjo has been in office for three months and
Nigeria, for a change, is getting some international goodwill. And I am
in Jos feeling just fine. The
rear approach to the old Zoo, Museum, Craft Centre and Open-air Theatre
complex is a curvy, tree-shaded road, which seems befitting. This, after
all, is the city of the plateau. Around
the corner on the approach to the museum, a boathouse lies in a
waterless berth. Images of Noah's Ark stranded on a rock spring to mind
as I work the camera. As
I cross over to enter the zoo, a preposterous thought crosses my mind:
"Crispin, you're going to fall in love with the first animal you
see here!" I chuckle to myself and dismiss the idea. The
first zoo occupants I come across are a pair of Nile crocodiles. I don't
fall for any of the two. One is reputed to be around fifty years old
having come to the zoo on its opening in 1955. For
a pair of chimpanzees (one is a foundation member so that puts him in
the same league as the crocodile), it's time for breakfast, too. They're
feeding on groundnuts, cabbage, potatoes and bananas. A warthog with
twisted horns, the crested porcupine--an unending list, really. Then,
finally, Old William. Old
William is a late preserved desert tortoise reputed to have been very
popular with kids. The small ones, it is said, enjoyed taking piggyback
rides on Old William who reportedly lived for more than two and a half
centuries. Now he stays pretty quiet in a glass cage in a room inside
the Jos zoo. It
is while I'm studying Old William that a premonition,
magic in the air, overwhelms me. I
swivel 180 degrees, and there she is. Served up in a tight-fitting
outfit, she instantly has my brain sending sensuous signals to all parts
of me. Is she the love object my heart has been hoping for all day? "Hello,"
I mouth, not sure the word would come out right if I try to vocalise. "Hi,"
she beams. "You've been looking at that dead tortoise for a long
time." "Oh,
that. Yeah, that's Old William." Next
I'm waxing poetic as if she's unable to read the plaque on Old William's
glass cage that provides the information I'm trying to buy familiarity
with. She
keeps up the polite smile and listens as if I'm a learned professor.
Soon, I tire of my charade and try to move things to a personal level. Her
name is Felicia. Beyond that, she only makes short and
noncommittal replies to my probing questions. I manage to gather though
that she's an electrical engineer, and in J Town on a visit. From the
looks of her, I figure she could be anything between 25 and 35. For some
reason I cannot put my finger on, I presume she's single and begin to
imagine how nice it would be to make serious progress in quick time with
her. Since
she's on her own, I invite Felicia to join me on my around-the-town
trip. My heart leaps when she accepts and I steer her away from Old
William who has suddenly become very boring. With
Ishaya sporting a sheep's smile behind the steering wheel, we head for
the Shere Hills. These are scenic rocky hills behind the outlying
district of Lamingo, traditionally the habitat of the Jarawa people who
are easily identified by single vertical tribal marks on each cheek. Felicia,
clearly not given to many side comments, listens seemingly with rapture
as I reel out info I had earlier garnered from an old government
gazette. Besides
the sheer display of untouched rocky scenery, the intriguing thing about
the Shere Hills is the number of rock formations occurring naturally,
but bearing patterns that seem man-made. One is an over-large boulder
precariously stopped by a small rock from tipping to the earth. As we
drive on, it becomes clear that in these parts, rocks abound that are
perched somewhat dangerously on the edges of other rocks. "What
if these rocks should fall as we are driving by?" Felicia queries. In
an effort to pursue such fantasies as have occupied my mind since our
meeting, I join Felicia at the back during a stop for black market fuel
sold out of plastic jerry cans. As he reenters the car, I can see that
Ishaya is now wearing a knowing ear-to-ear grin. I ignore him and turn
my charms on Felicia. At
the outskirts of J Town, beyond an area known as Tudun Wada, we find the
Wildlife Park. It is a game preservation park that some refer to as the
new Jos zoo. While
Felicia actively takes in the sights and my camera mechanically records
the scenes, my mind is definitely on different game. Shapely
like the model in a popular beauty soap advert, I imagine it would be
joyous to make out with Felicia. As it is, making out--feverishly, at
that-- is what has taken over my thoughts as we visit with various game
species. And
how, I am helplessly wondering, may my fantasies be realised? Would
Felicia care for some lunch? "Oh
no, thank you," she says, lighting up my world with her sparkling
teeth. "I'll have lunch later with my husband when he's through
with his meeting." HUSBAND?
I almost blank out. Thankfully, I only exhale heavily and try to cover up
my disappointment. It's
crazy what your mind can do. Not long before I hear the "H" word, I had
Felicia streaming through my consciousness as a sexy TV model. Now I
begin to think she's actually matronly and dumpy. Politeness
dictates that I go through my tour of J Town with Felicia as earlier
planned, and I do. Mostly, though, I'm thinking Ishaya would have been
enough company. At
last, we drop Felicia off at the hotel where she's staying. Courteously,
I decline her invitation to have a drink and scurry off to finish my
assignment. But
even as I shoot pictures of old stone-built picturesque buildings,
noting how Jos carries old age with charming grace, I'm in 'down' mode.
I feel drained and all I want is home. As
I travel back to my base in Abuja, I'm thinking how I would shape my
travelogue. I can't be sure yet what I'll write about but I quickly
decide what I won't be saying. No Felicia. No mention of
wishing to "making out" feverishly. And--just so they don't
get round to writing that silly obituary if I check out--there won't
be any mention of jaywalking in J Town. |
|
Author's Biography Nigerian
writer Crispin Oduobuk is 30, single and the magazine editor of the
Weekly Trust. He's a read-a-lot, travel-when-can, music and Internet
freak. |
Essay
Reviews! Site Reviews! We'd
like to know from our readers if they enjoy Seven Seas Magazine! Do
you have praise or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? Get notified! Would you
like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on
the Web? Tell a friend! Do you
enjoy the Seven Seas site?
|
|
Go back to the table
of contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
|
