The Banga soup mishap
:
Its 5:45 am on a cold Wednesday morning. All around you is
the bustling activity that characterises most bus parks early
in the morning. Usually this pandemonium endures up until
say 10am and slowly tapers as the day wears on. You used to
congratulate this particular transport line for their good
customer service but this particular morning you are pissed
at the young woman behind the desk. She appears oblivious
to the fact that there is a queue three arms long and
manages to sound flippant while chewing gum.
You wonder to yourself how someone can be chewing gum
at 6:00am and recall how your room mate in secondary
school would retrieve gum that she stuck behind her ear
before going to bed the previous night and resume chewing
for the day. Just the thought of it sickens you as it did back
then. Maybe this heavily-painted, sleepy eyed, sharp tongued
ticket seller didn’t quite outgrow the bad habit hence the
chewing this early in the day. You are grateful when it finally
gets to your turn to pay for your bus ticket. You have learnt a
valuable lesson that when travelling by road across Nigeria,
the earlier you set out, the better for you. Shallow potholes
have assumed life-threatening dimensions at night. Even
gentlemen of the highway seem to favour this time of the
day to carry out their assignments.
You make your way to an empty seat in the well-lit waiting
area, sandwiched between a lady in curlers and a man
sipping coffee. Since when did curlers become a fashion
accessory that people now go about with all colours of
plastic stuck in their hair? You stare at the 52 inch coloured
screen on the wall opposite you. The volume is turned down
but the bright pictures catch your attention. It’s a movie on
Africa Magic. Despite the lack of volume, you cannot believe
the scene that is unfolding before your very eyes. A lady
enters the scene which happens to be a pristine looking
kitchen, grabs a pack of juice from the fridge and pours
some quantity into a glass; she proceeds to retrieve a tiny
parcel from her bosom. She pours what appears to be white
powder from the parcel into the glass of juice, stirs it with
her index finger and finishes by licking her finger. Next we
see her smiling into the living room depositing the glass on a
tray in front of a male actor. The male actor takes a gulp and
few seconds later doubles up in excruciating pain. The scene
ends with the male actor lying out cold on the floor while his
female counterpart is shedding (crocodile) tears. You
wonder why she too is not dead. After all, she licked the
finger with which she stirred the poisoned drink. You turn
away in disgust, and crane your neck to take in the
surroundings; the comings and goings. The man who ten
minutes ago was sipping coffee is surprisingly snoozing away
with his head drooping to the left and brushing your
shoulder.
You shift, he shifts. You wiggle, he snuggles closer. Finally you
shove and he wakes up with a startle, apologises and stands
up. He is clearly embarrassed. You check your wristwatch, its
6:30am. Just then your bus is announced over the speaker
and you are thankful for little mercies. You make your way
towards the loading area to board the bus finally. Once
settled in your seat, you bring out your blackberry device to
call your boyfriend and let him know you will soon hit the
road. As his caller tune gives way to his rich baritone, you
close your eyes and let his voice wash over you. In a few
hours you will be in his house in Lagos. In his arms! He tells
you all the naughty things he’ll do to you once he sees you
and that he can’t wait to see you. You giggle excitedly; you
can hear your laughter ringing in your own ears. You steal a
sideways look and discover that no one is paying any
particular interest in you or your conversation. Your fellow
passengers appear busy trying to get settled. Your boyfriend
wishes you a safe trip and hangs up. You let your mind
wander.
The promise of the “naughty things” makes you wish you
could bridge the distance immediately. You can feel his lips
on yours as he gently probes the soft recesses of your
mouth, passionately giving and taking in return. His hand on
your breast is so real that you reach down as if to hold it
there and with your eyes still closed you let out a low, soft
moan. A female voice from the back of the bus cuts into
your reverie:
“Brodas and Sistas, praise da Lord.”
“Alleluia.”
You snatch your hand from your chest and open your eyes,
slowly re- acquainting yourself with your surroundings.
“Brodas and Sistas, I say praise da Lord.”
“Alleluia.”
“Brodas and sisters before we embark on this journey, I want
you all to commit this journey into the hands of the
Almighty. Pray, pray, praaaaaaayyyyyyyy.”
You watch as all the passengers lurch into a praying frenzy,
shouting at the top of their voices simultaneously. The
woman proceeds to wrap up the prayers with a prayer of her
own. You mentally note how she repeatedly “pleads the
blood of Jesus on the vehicle, the highway, the driver, the
passengers, the engine, even the steering…..”
You wonder at the origin of the phrase “plead the blood of
Jesus”. In fact you question the grammatical correctness of
the statement, “I plead the blood of Jesus on ……” Then again,
how can someone after pleading the blood of Jesus upon
him/her self now pray against blood sucking demons on the
highway? Is it not something akin to asking a cat to look after
fish? You shake your head at your funny, yet twisted logic,
reminding yourself of what someone once said that “you
cannot practice religion or politics without some level of
fanaticism”. A joke about the blood of Jesus being exhausted
because it has been used every so often comes to mind too.
This time you chuckle. Nobody seems to notice, they are
singing praises. The driver starts the engine, the bus rolls out
of the park kicking dust as it sets off from Warri.
One of the passengers begins playing music on his
blackberry device. The voice of Terry G fills the bus as he
“knacks you akpako”. From the rear of the bus comes
another melody. This time you can tell that the phone is a
Tecno. If Terry G was obtrusive, the ‘akanchawa’ emanating
from this phone is offensively loud. Directly in front of you,
the driver has just begun playing an audio CD titled “Comedy
Clinic Ward” 5 by comedian Gordons. His coarse voice is
belting out of the bus’ speakers. You reach into your handbag
for your earpiece to plug your ears. Thankfully, one of the
passengers who felt he had endured enough of the confusion
speaks up. You can hear them arguing in the background as
you proceed to listen to music from your ipod. After a while,
you notice that the only external sound is the one coming
from the bus stereo.
You are now at Ore, that town that is famous for bananas,
plantain and the culinary delights of roadside “mama puts”.
Your fellow passengers promptly disperse into the makeshift
stalls that have been erected to offer shade and succour to
hungry, thirsty travellers. You proceed to settle on a bench in
one of the stalls after purchasing some bananas and
groundnuts to go with it. It’s the only thing your stomach can
contain without churning on this bumpy road trip. You spy
one of your fellow passengers digging into a bowl of ‘banga
soup and starch’. From your vantage point you can see a
giant head of fish spilling out of the bowl. The man’s Adam’s
apple bobs as he swallows morsel after morsel. It is time to
get on the bus to begin the second leg of the journey. It’s
been little over an hour since you left the dusty town of Ore
and joined the tarmac to Lagos.
“Driver, abeg stop.”
You turn around and you discover that it is the ‘fish head’
passenger who’s talking.
“Driver I say make you stop oh.”
You notice that the driver is in no mood to stop. At least
from the way he’s burning rubber.
“Driver abeg stop oooooohhhhhhhh.”
“Wetin?” the driver queries
‘Fish head’ replies in a tiny voice, “I wan shit”.
The bus erupts in laughter. You shake your head wryly. This is
the result of eating Mama Obukowho’s roadside ‘banga’ soup.
You wonder when people would learn their lesson, maybe
because you have learnt yours, painfully.
The man is whimpering now, he is almost shedding tears as
he begs to be allowed to go and answer the call of nature.
The other passengers feel duty bound to intervene since it is
difficult to stand being in close quarters with someone in
that kind of discomfort. Add the fact that there is the very
real and present threat of the man doing his business right in
the bus. The driver slows down and parks by the side of the
road all the while raining abuses on the sobbing man. The
sweating passenger quickly bounds out of the bus to a
nearby bush.
From here on, the journey is pretty much uneventful. As
soon as you sight the Redeemed Camp, you breathe a sigh of
relief. As you board a cab at Ojota heading for Allen Avenue
Ikeja, you take in the sights and sounds of Lagos. On your
route, you notice a whole lot of changes since you were last
here.
Later that night as you settle into your boyfriend’s arms for
real and not in your dreams, you chuckle at the day’s events.
He asks you what’s funny; you reply that it’s nothing of
consequence. What else could matter at this moment with
his deft fingers snaking up your thigh in search of your soft
sweetness?
What are we gonna say now is that are you really in the Mood?!?
The End
CLICK TO GO TO OTHER STORIES
:
Its 5:45 am on a cold Wednesday morning. All around you is
the bustling activity that characterises most bus parks early
in the morning. Usually this pandemonium endures up until
say 10am and slowly tapers as the day wears on. You used to
congratulate this particular transport line for their good
customer service but this particular morning you are pissed
at the young woman behind the desk. She appears oblivious
to the fact that there is a queue three arms long and
manages to sound flippant while chewing gum.
You wonder to yourself how someone can be chewing gum
at 6:00am and recall how your room mate in secondary
school would retrieve gum that she stuck behind her ear
before going to bed the previous night and resume chewing
for the day. Just the thought of it sickens you as it did back
then. Maybe this heavily-painted, sleepy eyed, sharp tongued
ticket seller didn’t quite outgrow the bad habit hence the
chewing this early in the day. You are grateful when it finally
gets to your turn to pay for your bus ticket. You have learnt a
valuable lesson that when travelling by road across Nigeria,
the earlier you set out, the better for you. Shallow potholes
have assumed life-threatening dimensions at night. Even
gentlemen of the highway seem to favour this time of the
day to carry out their assignments.
You make your way to an empty seat in the well-lit waiting
area, sandwiched between a lady in curlers and a man
sipping coffee. Since when did curlers become a fashion
accessory that people now go about with all colours of
plastic stuck in their hair? You stare at the 52 inch coloured
screen on the wall opposite you. The volume is turned down
but the bright pictures catch your attention. It’s a movie on
Africa Magic. Despite the lack of volume, you cannot believe
the scene that is unfolding before your very eyes. A lady
enters the scene which happens to be a pristine looking
kitchen, grabs a pack of juice from the fridge and pours
some quantity into a glass; she proceeds to retrieve a tiny
parcel from her bosom. She pours what appears to be white
powder from the parcel into the glass of juice, stirs it with
her index finger and finishes by licking her finger. Next we
see her smiling into the living room depositing the glass on a
tray in front of a male actor. The male actor takes a gulp and
few seconds later doubles up in excruciating pain. The scene
ends with the male actor lying out cold on the floor while his
female counterpart is shedding (crocodile) tears. You
wonder why she too is not dead. After all, she licked the
finger with which she stirred the poisoned drink. You turn
away in disgust, and crane your neck to take in the
surroundings; the comings and goings. The man who ten
minutes ago was sipping coffee is surprisingly snoozing away
with his head drooping to the left and brushing your
shoulder.
You shift, he shifts. You wiggle, he snuggles closer. Finally you
shove and he wakes up with a startle, apologises and stands
up. He is clearly embarrassed. You check your wristwatch, its
6:30am. Just then your bus is announced over the speaker
and you are thankful for little mercies. You make your way
towards the loading area to board the bus finally. Once
settled in your seat, you bring out your blackberry device to
call your boyfriend and let him know you will soon hit the
road. As his caller tune gives way to his rich baritone, you
close your eyes and let his voice wash over you. In a few
hours you will be in his house in Lagos. In his arms! He tells
you all the naughty things he’ll do to you once he sees you
and that he can’t wait to see you. You giggle excitedly; you
can hear your laughter ringing in your own ears. You steal a
sideways look and discover that no one is paying any
particular interest in you or your conversation. Your fellow
passengers appear busy trying to get settled. Your boyfriend
wishes you a safe trip and hangs up. You let your mind
wander.
The promise of the “naughty things” makes you wish you
could bridge the distance immediately. You can feel his lips
on yours as he gently probes the soft recesses of your
mouth, passionately giving and taking in return. His hand on
your breast is so real that you reach down as if to hold it
there and with your eyes still closed you let out a low, soft
moan. A female voice from the back of the bus cuts into
your reverie:
“Brodas and Sistas, praise da Lord.”
“Alleluia.”
You snatch your hand from your chest and open your eyes,
slowly re- acquainting yourself with your surroundings.
“Brodas and Sistas, I say praise da Lord.”
“Alleluia.”
“Brodas and sisters before we embark on this journey, I want
you all to commit this journey into the hands of the
Almighty. Pray, pray, praaaaaaayyyyyyyy.”
You watch as all the passengers lurch into a praying frenzy,
shouting at the top of their voices simultaneously. The
woman proceeds to wrap up the prayers with a prayer of her
own. You mentally note how she repeatedly “pleads the
blood of Jesus on the vehicle, the highway, the driver, the
passengers, the engine, even the steering…..”
You wonder at the origin of the phrase “plead the blood of
Jesus”. In fact you question the grammatical correctness of
the statement, “I plead the blood of Jesus on ……” Then again,
how can someone after pleading the blood of Jesus upon
him/her self now pray against blood sucking demons on the
highway? Is it not something akin to asking a cat to look after
fish? You shake your head at your funny, yet twisted logic,
reminding yourself of what someone once said that “you
cannot practice religion or politics without some level of
fanaticism”. A joke about the blood of Jesus being exhausted
because it has been used every so often comes to mind too.
This time you chuckle. Nobody seems to notice, they are
singing praises. The driver starts the engine, the bus rolls out
of the park kicking dust as it sets off from Warri.
One of the passengers begins playing music on his
blackberry device. The voice of Terry G fills the bus as he
“knacks you akpako”. From the rear of the bus comes
another melody. This time you can tell that the phone is a
Tecno. If Terry G was obtrusive, the ‘akanchawa’ emanating
from this phone is offensively loud. Directly in front of you,
the driver has just begun playing an audio CD titled “Comedy
Clinic Ward” 5 by comedian Gordons. His coarse voice is
belting out of the bus’ speakers. You reach into your handbag
for your earpiece to plug your ears. Thankfully, one of the
passengers who felt he had endured enough of the confusion
speaks up. You can hear them arguing in the background as
you proceed to listen to music from your ipod. After a while,
you notice that the only external sound is the one coming
from the bus stereo.
You are now at Ore, that town that is famous for bananas,
plantain and the culinary delights of roadside “mama puts”.
Your fellow passengers promptly disperse into the makeshift
stalls that have been erected to offer shade and succour to
hungry, thirsty travellers. You proceed to settle on a bench in
one of the stalls after purchasing some bananas and
groundnuts to go with it. It’s the only thing your stomach can
contain without churning on this bumpy road trip. You spy
one of your fellow passengers digging into a bowl of ‘banga
soup and starch’. From your vantage point you can see a
giant head of fish spilling out of the bowl. The man’s Adam’s
apple bobs as he swallows morsel after morsel. It is time to
get on the bus to begin the second leg of the journey. It’s
been little over an hour since you left the dusty town of Ore
and joined the tarmac to Lagos.
“Driver, abeg stop.”
You turn around and you discover that it is the ‘fish head’
passenger who’s talking.
“Driver I say make you stop oh.”
You notice that the driver is in no mood to stop. At least
from the way he’s burning rubber.
“Driver abeg stop oooooohhhhhhhh.”
“Wetin?” the driver queries
‘Fish head’ replies in a tiny voice, “I wan shit”.
The bus erupts in laughter. You shake your head wryly. This is
the result of eating Mama Obukowho’s roadside ‘banga’ soup.
You wonder when people would learn their lesson, maybe
because you have learnt yours, painfully.
The man is whimpering now, he is almost shedding tears as
he begs to be allowed to go and answer the call of nature.
The other passengers feel duty bound to intervene since it is
difficult to stand being in close quarters with someone in
that kind of discomfort. Add the fact that there is the very
real and present threat of the man doing his business right in
the bus. The driver slows down and parks by the side of the
road all the while raining abuses on the sobbing man. The
sweating passenger quickly bounds out of the bus to a
nearby bush.
From here on, the journey is pretty much uneventful. As
soon as you sight the Redeemed Camp, you breathe a sigh of
relief. As you board a cab at Ojota heading for Allen Avenue
Ikeja, you take in the sights and sounds of Lagos. On your
route, you notice a whole lot of changes since you were last
here.
Later that night as you settle into your boyfriend’s arms for
real and not in your dreams, you chuckle at the day’s events.
He asks you what’s funny; you reply that it’s nothing of
consequence. What else could matter at this moment with
his deft fingers snaking up your thigh in search of your soft
sweetness?
What are we gonna say now is that are you really in the Mood?!?
The End
CLICK TO GO TO OTHER STORIES
