SHERINA AND THE LAW-ABIDING OFFICER

So Tuesday evening, I got proof, as if proof were needed, that God has a sense of humour.
Few days ago, I wrote Esprit de Corps  (part 1) about the military-checkpoint-rule and its application to "bloody Civilians" it was a veiled urge to security persons to uphold the law they are sworn to protect.
Well on Tuesday I had a church program for 4pm somewhere in Piyakasa, Abuja. I was undeniably late because it was already 5pm when my taxi dropped me off at Dantata bridge. I immediately looked around for one of the trusty motorbikes usually stationed at the bridge to convey people to Galadimawa roundabout. To my consternation, for the first time in living memory, not a single bike was in sight!
I was beside myself.
I couldn't handle the long trek to Galadimawa roundabout from that bridge because of the sweltering heat and honestly I was a bit under the weather. And even minus both of those factors, I was exceedingly late.
If you live in Nigeria then you probably balk at flagging down private cars because no one knows who's who right? Same here.
Well while I was standing around, waiting for the never-arriving bike, it occurred to me that with every passing second, the program I was rushing for was fast coming to an end.  
I swallowed my wariness in a hurry and proceeded to study passing cars, willing my mind to accept any one of them. Finally I saw a silver-colored, somewhat decrepit car approaching. I was going to let it pass, but at last, I summoned courage and flapped my hand as eagerly as a chicken's wing at the sight of breakfast.
The car hurtled past me, obviously intending to ignore my signal. I quickly dropped my hand, smarting from the affront. To my surprise, the driver pulled over just a little ahead. I hurriedly dashed to join him, my pique forgotten as I clambered into the front seat and  smiled my gratitude.
My buttocks had barely touched the seat before he snapped at me to fasten my seatbelt.
My mouth puckered in silent protest as I did as I was told. I HAD been going to do just that, I mused mutinously. There hadn't been any need to bite off my head.
Anyway as soon as he began to drive again,  my ire vanished as though it had never been.
Unfortunately, rush-hour traffic was already building as we neared the roundabout. Traffic was heavy and of course the impatient drivers that ply Abuja roads kept shoving and thrusting as each tried to overtake the other. Curses rent the air. I choked back a horrified giggle as one Igbo brother crudely invited fire to roast the driver of the car behind him who was tailgating him. "Chineke gbaa kwa gi oku!" He yelled. 😂
As I watched the drama all around,  it belatedly occurred to me that my driver was the only person who wasn't trying to cut the line. He joined the very end of the longest of three queues, his face calm as a lake.
I shot him an alarmed glance from underneath my lashes. I was normally all for being law-abiding but today I needed a 007 driver in my boat... er,  car if I was to meet my program. My driver was no 007; he was the very soul of patience and I reasoned mournfully that at this rate, I would be lucky if I arrived the church in time for closing prayers!
A sharp guy to the right of us suddenly swerved roughly and overtook five cars forcing his own vehicle through a narrow opening. All five cars plunged in after him at once thus opening up a wide stretch of road ahead of us. My heart lifted and I shot an expectant look at my driver. If he took that route, I could be out of this traffic in five minutes and on my way to church, I thought happily.
The man  kept waiting patiently at the back of the line. He didn't even move a muscle. 😩😩😩
Other drivers from behind immediately dived into the wide open road ahead of us and my heart sank in consternation.  What was he? New to the country?
I turned to urge him to mosey on just as he leaned out of his window and barked at the drivers on his side of the road, "If you don't take your time, I'll book you."
I did a double-take. Book kwaa?
And that's when I saw it! People of Zion,  yours truly was riding shotgun with a Road Safety officer, Special Marshall. I stifled a groan
He was the law itself! He kept so much space between him and the back of the car in front that several other hopeful drivers kept trying to edge in; he wasn't in a hurry to cut corners and escape traffic and he certainly wasn't going to drive above 20km or so per hour.
By the time he finally escaped traffic, I was fighting back tears of frustration. I was so late I doubted I would even meet anyone in the church apart from the security men.
I weakly motioned to where I wanted to alight.
He informed me that that was not a safe spot. He needed to "clear properly."
Suffice it to say, by the time he finally found a good spot to park, my eyes were red. I exited the vehicle with the little grace I could muster, thanked him through my tear-choked throat and finally began the five minutes trek from where he had stopped me back to where he SHOULD HAVE stopped me so I could finally pick yet another bike to church.
I was too weak to fume; I just wanted to seat in a corner and pout.  In the end, I realised God was listening when I lamented that officers made the laws and expected Civilians to obey while they broke them.
I'd met a law-abiding officer for the first time in a long while that Tuesday, just when I didn't need one; and I wasn't amused.
Morale of the story? Be careful what you wish for coz apparently the Fates are always listening.

Learn the lesson and share the story

©2017 by Sherina Okoye

ESPRIT DE CORPS... PART 2

Our driver was recovering faster than anticipated. The cool, Abuja air gushing in through the open windows assured him that he had indeed escaped frog-jumps, delays and probably a night or two feeding some mosquitoes in a guard-room somewhere.

He sped down the freeway, his thoughts obviously in a whirl as he snuck repeated looks over his shoulder at phone lady AKA Civil Defence Officer. I could practically hear him wondering if he could get away with giving her a piece of his mind for scaring him like that.

 In the end, he was too chicken-hearted to dare: she was a woman in uniform after all and she had indicated that her bus-stop was Sauka. For those who don't know, Sauka is a bus-stop located around airport road in Abuja and it is directly opposite a Civil Defense office which means it's always teeming with officers. He didn't want to try rubbish in case he got to the bus-stop and she called the calvary.

The other passengers seemed to be in a similar quagmire.  They wanted to also give phone lady a piece of their collective minds for the HBP and heart palpitations she had caused them but they managed to restrain themselves; again, because of her uniform.

I'm fairly certain I was the only person grinning in the entire vehicle; I caught a few evil eyes cast my way in proof of that fact. Civil Defense was probably having a good chuckle too but she wisely kept it on the inside. As we crossed airport enroute Sauka, it was as quiet as a church in the taxi.  Given the continued grin on my face,  I'm sure everyone thought I was in cahoots with Civil Defense. I wasn't,  I didn't know her from Adam.  Anyway, try as I might, I couldn't stop smiling Coz I'm one of those people who enjoy watching high drama with a happy ending.

One time the driver cast an evil eye at Civil Defense via his rearview mirror but she pretended not to see. She wasn't looking around anymore but staring straight ahead. She seemed comfortable meeting only my gaze; her only fan.

The driver maintained his cool, and the effort visibly cost him. Apparently as he replayed the events, he became more pissed by the way he had been reduced to begging her to end her call. Why didn't she save his ego by informing him of the Esprit thingy? He probably felt she had tampered with his masculinity and machismo in some way. 😎

By the time we reached Sauka, his jaw was clenched with impotent fury and he was quivering again; this time with ill-suppressed ire.

Civil Defense alighted from the car and blithely whipped out a thousand Naira note which she proceeded to wave under the driver's nose.

The man was beside himself.

"Oppicer, but how you go give me N1,000? Your money naa N50!"

The woman looked down her nose as she informed him in the haughtiest tone I had ever heard; "That's what I have. Unless you want to leave the money for me."

I lost my smile at that one as her ajebo certificate was crudely ripped in two before my eyes.

"How you go say make i leave money for you? No be work I dey so?" He shot back. His wariness and fear of her uniform had evaporated at the thought of losing his hard-earned N50. Yes ma'am, the hustle is real. Don't mess with a taxi driver's take-home.

I cheerfully offered the driver two N500 notes to change her money, smiling like the good girl I'm not. He collected it with a grateful glance.  Two other passengers immediately gave him smaller denominations as well. In less than five seconds, he had N950 which he handed gleefully to her through his open window.  

Civil Defense glared at me quickly realising she had been betrayed by her only fan. I wasn't fazed. I gave her a blank stare that would have done Barbie doll proud. If you know me, then you know injustice gets my back up. I could see humor in scaring the driver at a checkpoint but I failed to see the humor in cheating him of his money especially since I had seen a N200 note sticking out when she pulled out her ID Card earlier.

Seeing she hadn't managed to cow me, she turned and sauntered away.

As our taxi pulled away from the curb, our driver launched into a tirade about bullies in uniform.
Other passengers had apparently recovered their powers of speech.
"Naa waa ooo. The woman been get plan," the man in front began.
"So she want make driver dash am N50?" Someone else asked rhetorically.
"Her plan no go work," the other passenger declared.

I silently listened wondering all the while why uniforms seemed to protect their wearers more than the public.

The morale of the story? When it comes to his money, the "bloody Civilian" will often quickly forget his fear regardless of what apparel you have on. The common man will fight for his money more than for his human rights.

Learn the lesson and share the story

©2017 by Sherina Okoye

ESPRIT DE CORPS... PART 1

She was fair-complexioned with a face ravaged by pimples and tribal carvings; the unfortunate heritage of most African children who had no one to defend their cause at birth. She was remarkably pretty nonetheless. She was dressed in a black tee shirt, simple gold watch faded to a dull silver by constant exposure to the harsh sunlight, she also wore a pair of navy-blue cargo pants (trousers) and she had short hair plaited in braids and done up in a modest bun.

As the taxi careened merrily down the highway, she kept a calm watchful mien, her eyes swinging this way and that in spite of being quashed in the back seat with three other passengers, myself included.  Given that I was seated right beside her, I kept an eye on her, observing her out of the side of my own eyes. I mean I figured it was my civic duty to keep an eye on her while she kept an eye on everything else.
As we drew even with a military checkpoint, she absently whipped out her phone to receive an incoming call. The driver jolted with fright, almost losing control of his steering as he realised one passenger was about to earn him a few frog-jumps and several hours cooling his heels at the military checkpoint while other commercial drivers sped past to pick up passengers from the busy streets of Abuja.

"Madam no fhone call! Naa army check foint!" He whispered urgently, fright and an Hausa accent causing him to mispronounce his words.
The lady jerked,  hurriedly took the phone away from her ear, then apparently recalling her 'status', she returned the phone to her ear and continued her call, leaning back lazily as she deliberately prolonged the call. By now, the other passengers had joined the driver in frantically urging her to end the call as we were a mere three cars away from the lone soldier inspecting passing vehicles. I could sense the palpable tension and fear; who could blame them? Apparently in Nigeria the fear of the military is the beginning of preservation of your basic human rights.  Just ask communities which saw pythons come out to dance in the village square. 🙄

Anyway, phone lady continued her call until we drew even with the soldier. By now our driver had shrunk in on himself and was now so tiny in his seat that I could barely see his head above the headrest.

Everyone probably thought I was either a stranger to Nigeria or recklessly unconcerned because I was the only other passenger at peace in Zion. I didn't tell them but I knew what the phone lady knew; I knew what she had recalled before she got courage to continue her call.

The gallant soldier waved us on and as we drew away, he shouted, "Stop!". Obviously he had belatedly sighted the phone pressed to her ear.

Our driver was a shivering wreck by now shooting impotent glances of fury and accusation over his shoulder at phone lady. The soldier strode up to the car but before he could get a word out, phone lady tossed the magic words at him, "Esprit de Corps."
He wasn't impressed. "Who are you?" He barked, veins standing out on his forehead while sweat glimmered on his craggy face.
She lifted her buttocks to enable her reach for her ID Card.  The motion drew the soldier's attention to what I had already noticed: Her navy-blue pants screamed 'Civil Defense'.
He didn't bother to see the ID anymore; he just ordered us to "Carry on".
I could almost hear the palpable sighs of relief in the minds of the other passengers as visions of frog-jumps and guardrooms vanished.

I smirked.

As we left I reflected that the military probably created the draconian 'law' banning phone calls at checkpoints because to the best of my knowledge there is no written legislation to that effect. And apparently,  the law only applies to "bloody Civilians". 😂😂😂


Morale of the story? Sometimes all you need to create the law is a uniform and all you need to break it for free is yet another uniform.

Learn the lesson and share the story

©2017 by Sherina Okoye