Going Local
We pulled from the driveway at a quarter to six. The sun slept behind the early morning sky, as headlights pierced the dust, lighting the path ahead. The day broke an hour later as we reached the outskirts beyond the suburbs, with blue skies sweeping the tips of thin palm trees and lush, green hills leaping and diving in the distance, rising to meet the tar plank beneath us.
We crossed the Ogun border into Ondo state, where roadside markets stood and windowside vendors halted the pace of traffic. Hawkers of all ages dangled their goods in the air and kissed behind them, trying to win our pockets’ affection. Boxes of Gala snacks and baskets of Coca-Cola products floated beside us, while a few bananas, peanuts, and kola nuts made their way to our laps. I was excited by the prospect of tasting kola nut for the first time, as it was a renowned delicacy, traditionally shared with guests. “It’s bitter,” my aunt warned as I hurriedly peeled back the brown skin and revealed the cream-colored nut. I bit off a chunk, and I soon found myself washing down the kola nut with a cold drink and vowing to munch on my bag of peanuts until the tree-root taste was supplanted. “Bitter” had been the understatement of the trip.
Our cruise was paused shortly, as we neared a sedan teetering in a large pothole. We watched as a few shirtless Samaritans walked over to lend a hand. Each of the men gripped the car from below, tightening their perfect biceps as they began to lift. They leaned against the car, as sweat slid down the crevices of their backs into the hardly covered cracks of plum bottoms below. In rhythmic fashion, they began thrusting the car forward, shifting force from their shoulders to their waists…again…and again…and again. The bag of peanuts fell from my lap.
They eventually rocked the car and the traffic around it back onto their journeys. But the speedometer’s needle soon fell again as the stream of cars before us bottle-necked to a single lane. We slowly approached the obstruction on our left – a timber barricade sloping from a small log to a tire on the ground. Just past the barrier stood a few men, dressed in hunter-green pants with rifles adorning the shoulders of their black, button-down shirts. One of our two cars was waved to the side, only to have our driver harassed because of missing license plates and our government documents proving our compliance with the law ignored. The scene repeated itself over a dozen times throughout our journey, typically ending with a smiling officer whose pockets had fattened either with Naira or fresh bread loaves from my aunt’s bakery. (My second cousin riding in the troubled vehicle would later recount to me that a few of the cops outright told them, “I don’t want read paper; just give me money,” with one even offering to make change.) “Merry Christmas,” they blessed us as we drove away.
From Ondo, we flew through Edo, until a billboard welcomed us to Delta state. The sign was soon succeeded by half dozen more, advertising “leadership,” “principles,” and “service” from the 2011 elections salesmen. We ventured onward until white and blue street lights adorned our final stretch of the expressway. After an eleven hour drive, we had reached Asaba. We had reached home.
NJNious
