That was me talking to me. On occasions like this, I clone myself and speak to my other half persona.
I try to convince myself to stay back but it’s getting close to 3pm. 4pm, appointment will be over. These civil servants (civil masters jare) don’t joke with closing hours, they’ll even reduce it by 30 and you’ve got to come the next day.
I don’t want to do two trips on this Apapa expressway; you don’t tempt road demons twice in a row. Once is enough for the traveler.
Eventually, I convinced myself after striking a monetary deal with someone to accompany me so that if we’re going down on the road, two bodies are better than one. Such evil proclivity.
We boarded bikes. Mind you, I hate okadas nowadays except my future Suzuki Hayabusa super bike I’ll buy for 2.5m soon but I still climbed the okada anyway. Something must kill a man.
We hit the road and then, we’re dwarfed by heavy duty vehicles. Literally. Tankers and trailers everywhere, it’s like the rise of robots; I’ve had this fantasy to do an evil and comic robot story and here I was, a major character in this except that this was reality and not fiction.
I’m not maths major but I counted over 100 trailers and tankers to and fro. It’s like they turned up for traffic party and the DJ mixed honks and horns of different vehicles; party banger.
To get through this long stretch of traffic, you’ve got to own an okada. Even trekkers aren’t allowed here. You dare not trek with okadas whizzing past you like mad mosquitoes looking for blood to suck.
Even on okada, you’ve got to be familiar with the patois – Hausa. I can’t exactly speak Hausa, so when a stubborn headed okada rider coming towards us refused to go his route (his route being two steps back, a ride of 5 seconds and a stunt under a parked trailer), the okada riders in the route I was in cursed at him in the patois. He cursed back in same patois.
I was lost so I cursed him in English, laced with long ambiguous English words unnecessary for the occasion; while cursing him, I was thinking of standing on the okada and doing a stunt with two trailers parked about 12 inches away from each other.
I’d rather be over-prepared than under-. I wished I borrowed my dad’s six-languages-speaking-tongue for this ride through TrailerVille, Apapa but dad’s tongue was somewhere in his mouth at work.
10 minutes later, we arrived at our destination in Apapa central. Everywhere was chill and everyone there acted like nothing’s happening at the outskirts. Jeeps and flashy cars here and there. This felt familiar: “If something isn’t happening to you, you don’t know how it feels.”
I’m not going to Apapa anymore in the nearest future until Ambode chases all trailers and tankers away from that road. Smokes, fumes and the idea of possibly colliding with a trailer or tanker isn’t in my itinerary.
Lest I forget, welcome to Trailerville, Apapa, the land of tankers and trailers.