Defending the streets

The sun wasn't so intense, it had just the right balance, everything about the day was going fine -part affirming that the force was with me and the planned journey to Portharcourt was in line with God's will. You see the hour's long journey to Portharcourt shouldn't normally require this much permutation and calculation, but with the spate of kidnapping and robberies on the East-West road, one can only re-strategize: reappraise the importance of the journey, decide on the best time etc. So I was to head out on a Thursday (Neither a market day for Mbiama market nor the day workers living in different cities travelled more), between 10 and 11am, (a good balance since these enemies of the highway tended to target the morning or evening rush). Heading back at at most 3pm would also ensure I missed the peak of the city's traffic as well as the kidnappers who didn't get any victim in the morning. Lastly, balancing the pros and cons of private vs public transportation, I chose private transportation since it would likely eliminate the risk of being in the same vehicle as the enemy (besides that I'd somehow be less confident running from a rain of bullets if a paid public transporter was at the wheel.....homeboy could ditch the car at any point).

So I headed out, confident that I had taken adequate steps to ensure I returned safely to  continue living (insert 'for') my dreams. We get so used to doing things for ourselves in this country that we seldom factor in government's effort when brainstorming the solution to a problem. You can therefore imagine my shock when I kept encountering road blocks every 200meters (and no, this is by no means an exaggeration). Literally speaking, you could see the next road block while being questioned at one. Anything and everything was asked for including 'allocation of registration number' papers (whatever that means). I considered turning back since I had yet to reach our State's border and had already been stopped thrice for detailed questioning. By the fifth stop, I could have as well made friends with one exasperated guy who had been stopped each time I was stopped. My nerves went from frayed to soothed at different points until I decided to zone out of the process. I kept sane reminding myself that our government and the uniformed men were just doing their part to keep the streets safe for us. 

With each stop, the chances of meeting an open office in Portharcourt appeared to diminish. Until  I met this Mobile Police man (MoPol)  at a stop halfway into the journey that made me want to forget the rush and just pause. He had asked the obligatory: 'what do you have in your boot' and I had offered the usual lazy 'nothing' in the hopes that it was nonchalant enough for him to believe there was really nothing in it but not too nonchalant that I passed off as arrogant (heaven forbade). This appeared to be working as he didn't ask me to come down and open the boot or even hand him the vehicle's papers, he instead raised his hand to waive me on while taking a lazy glance at the back seat. I'd already heaved a sigh of relief as I was about to head on when I heard him stop me again and point to the back seat. 

All sorts flashed through my mind as I did a mental check of what was supposed to be at the back, my cardigan I flung over earlier, my hand bag on the floor, some loose papers and books at the most. Nothing illegal. But you know with the way the day was going, anything could have been branded illegal. He kept pointing. I had to lift the cardigan for him to see only books and papers were indeed on the seat. That wasn't enough, he asked for 'it' - at this stage, I had to turn back to see the books in question, a book I didn't recognize that had dark colors, (at that moment it looked like a book on weed) and then another book that was brightly colored, for an international exam. I was shocked to realize that was the one he wanted. This man that previously had a blunt affect took on the excitement of a kid who had been given candy. 

He flipped through it several times without talking and then finally asked if it was the original (believe me, he asked it in a fashion that was akin to disbelieving he could be actually holding the book in his hands). He talked of how he planned to write the exam, how his friend had also written the exam and how that a lot of money was needed to emigrate and he had made up his mind to just apply for a visiting visa. (I smiled knowing the implications of his statement). 

I took a good look at him as we chatted more about the exam, the cost, the scope etc in mostly pidgin. I saw a despondent man, a man forced to defend the streets, a man whose only ray of hope appeared to be far from the uniform he wore, pledging in another country. And for a millionth time, I wondered at the nation called Nigeria.