I had gone to my hairstylist's for a quick do. Her kids were scrambling around, constantly getting underfoot and occasionally getting into little fights as children are wont to do.
Finally, her daughter, a little girl of about six, acting all 'little mother' to her little brother and his friend suddenly let fly with a slap aimed right at his back.
He screamed and ran to report to his mother. She gave him a gimlet-eyed glare; you know the one mothers use when you're pushing your luck.
He shifted backwards out of reach his little mouth thrust out in a pout.
I laughed and pulled him towards me as I used a tissue to dab at the tiny drop of tear beneath one eye. "Stop crying, Great. Your sister was only playing with you. She's still your friend right?"
He gave me a long considering look and nodded slowly.
He looked so sad and so cute, it tugged at my heartstrings. I pinched his cheek gently and sent him off to go play with his sister and his little friend again.
Next thing I heard was his baby voice announcing what had to be the lie of the century, "Ayo, Aunty said I should beat you back."
Since I was obviously the 'Aunty'in question, I almost fell off my chair in surprise. "I said what now?"
A child-like slap landed on his older sister's face and she bore it stoically after all, "Aunty" had ordered her punishment.
I was still wrapping my head around it when Great ran up to me, his face as innocent as a cherub. I stared at him, unable to reconcile the bald-faced lying and the Machiavellian scheming with this tiny human with big eyes, chubby cheeks and even chubbier legs.
"Great, why did you do that? Why did you lie to your sister like that? Weren't you scared lying about what I told you?" I scolded.
He didn't respond. He offered another beatific grin, danced out of reach, and ran back to his sister.
I listened for an apology only to hear his piping voice announce again, "Ayo Aunty said I should beat you again."
😲😲😲
Another slap landed on poor Ayo.
"Do something," I implored their mother.
She shrugged with marked unconcern, "Ayo never first get sense." (Meaning "Ayo is being dumb so she deserved what she got").
Ayo received two more slaps in quick succession from the little fraudster and I decided I had had enough. I asked their mother to stop working on my hair for a minute. I grabbed Great and carried him from his sister before he beat her to a pulp in my innocent name.
I tried to explain to him why lying was bad but he didn't seem to understand. He kept giving me that beatific stare that hid the scary prowess of his little mind.
Finally, I loudly advised Ayo to retaliate if he came in my name again and after that he lost interest in his little game.
When we became lawyers, one of the first principles I learned was to expect lies from clients, colleagues, witnesses, the cops, anyone. If you are prepared for the lie, it's easier to spot it. But no one told me to expect such bold lies from four year olds...🙆♀️ It may seem like a small incident to some, but it really made me wonder.
Morale of the story? You tell me.
Sherina Okoye (2020)
Friday 19 June 2020
Wednesday 17 June 2020
NO REFUND POLICY
She was ensconced comfortably in the worn leather of the front passenger seat beside the driver, her hair done up in one of those intricate braid styles that flatter the beauty of the African woman.
It was plain that she was new in town: her head kept swinging this way and that, eyes wide as saucers as she drank in the passing scenery with childlike fascination. It was doubtful how much she could see in the driving rain but she maintained her fascinated mien, regardless.
As we neared the Immigration HQ, she reminded the driver of her stop at Sauka. He said nothing, and kept speeding along the highway rather than taking the detour for the service lane.
She issued another reminder as the vehicle sped past the bus-stop and the driver screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road.
His passenger promptly lost her fascination with the scenery and glared at him, "You passed my bus-stop."
"Ehen e no far naa. Jus come down trek go back," he retorted unapologetically in broken English. (Meaning "It's not far. Alight and walk back.")
Her glare intensified, "How am I supposed to trek back with this rain? There's an overhead bridge at my bus-stop so since it's not far,kindly reverse so I can take shelter there."
It was his turn to glare. "How I wan take reverse for express? You want make I kill everybody wey dey this car?"
A back and forth argument ensued between the pair and to punctuate his superior stance in the situation, the driver drove off again. His message was clear: he had nothing to lose if she refused to alight from his vehicle.
He drove a few more yards and stopped under the airport bridge as he barked, "Oya." (Nigerian slang similar to 'hurry up').
She looked at him, "I'm new to Abuja and this is my first time of taking public transport. You didn't drop me off at my bus-stop instead you drove further so I don't know where I am. Give me money to go back to my bus-stop with another car."
Smoke almost erupted from the driver's ears as he bellowed with rage. His angry yells were met with calm, obstinate responses from her. She refused to budge.
"Driver I paid N400, same as people going to Gwagwalada. Give me N50 to cross the road and take a taxi back to Sauka. How do you expect me to trek back? It's raining and I don't know this town well."
"If you don't get down from my car, I'll drive you to Gwagwalada and refund all your money to you," the driver barked, stepping up his English.
She remained undaunted.
I was growing bored and restless with the yells and delays. I'd had a long day at work and all I wanted was to get home and faint on the cushion like a member of Association of Lazy 'Yoots'. (A Nigerian-slang variation of the spelling of Youths; 'Lazy Youths' has become a slang, often used humorously and sarcastically).
Obviously I wasn't getting out of there anytime soon unless these two got their act together. The same thought must have also occured to a woman in back because as soon as I intervened, she did too.
"Driver, her request is not unreasonable," I began, wading into the argument.
"No, who is she? How she go dey give me command for my own car?" He demanded.
"Driver she was polite, to be honest. You were actually the one shouting," the other woman pointed out.
"Thank you," the passenger we were defending shouted, pleased at the unexpected support. I mean, this is after all Abuja where everyone makes a business of minding their business in hairy situations.
"See, get down from my car or I carry you to Gwagwalada," he threatened,foot poised above the accelerator.
"Why not give her N50 now and let her return to her bus-stop?," I told him. Then I played my trump card, "She told you she doesn't know Abuja and she boarded your vehicle at the park. If she goes missing, you'll be in trouble. What's the point of taking her to Gwagwalada and giving her N400 when N50 can settle it now?" I finished. (N400 is approximately a dollar. So N50 is roughly a quarter.)
My statement gave him pause and I could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered a new angle to the whole deal.
"Exactly," the woman behind agreed. "Nigerians can be stubborn. Driver stop trying to prove a point. Just give her the money let her go back. It was you that missed her bus-stop. You're not losing."
With a muttered oath, he flung N50 at the woman and as soon as she alighted, he sped off spewing gravel. I saw the woman's lips curve in a smug grin as she watched him drive off. Oh well, two Daniels came to court for her. What's not to grin about?
Morale of the story? Sometimes, let things go.
Sherina Okoye (2020)
It was plain that she was new in town: her head kept swinging this way and that, eyes wide as saucers as she drank in the passing scenery with childlike fascination. It was doubtful how much she could see in the driving rain but she maintained her fascinated mien, regardless.
As we neared the Immigration HQ, she reminded the driver of her stop at Sauka. He said nothing, and kept speeding along the highway rather than taking the detour for the service lane.
She issued another reminder as the vehicle sped past the bus-stop and the driver screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road.
His passenger promptly lost her fascination with the scenery and glared at him, "You passed my bus-stop."
"Ehen e no far naa. Jus come down trek go back," he retorted unapologetically in broken English. (Meaning "It's not far. Alight and walk back.")
Her glare intensified, "How am I supposed to trek back with this rain? There's an overhead bridge at my bus-stop so since it's not far,kindly reverse so I can take shelter there."
It was his turn to glare. "How I wan take reverse for express? You want make I kill everybody wey dey this car?"
A back and forth argument ensued between the pair and to punctuate his superior stance in the situation, the driver drove off again. His message was clear: he had nothing to lose if she refused to alight from his vehicle.
He drove a few more yards and stopped under the airport bridge as he barked, "Oya." (Nigerian slang similar to 'hurry up').
She looked at him, "I'm new to Abuja and this is my first time of taking public transport. You didn't drop me off at my bus-stop instead you drove further so I don't know where I am. Give me money to go back to my bus-stop with another car."
Smoke almost erupted from the driver's ears as he bellowed with rage. His angry yells were met with calm, obstinate responses from her. She refused to budge.
"Driver I paid N400, same as people going to Gwagwalada. Give me N50 to cross the road and take a taxi back to Sauka. How do you expect me to trek back? It's raining and I don't know this town well."
"If you don't get down from my car, I'll drive you to Gwagwalada and refund all your money to you," the driver barked, stepping up his English.
She remained undaunted.
I was growing bored and restless with the yells and delays. I'd had a long day at work and all I wanted was to get home and faint on the cushion like a member of Association of Lazy 'Yoots'. (A Nigerian-slang variation of the spelling of Youths; 'Lazy Youths' has become a slang, often used humorously and sarcastically).
Obviously I wasn't getting out of there anytime soon unless these two got their act together. The same thought must have also occured to a woman in back because as soon as I intervened, she did too.
"Driver, her request is not unreasonable," I began, wading into the argument.
"No, who is she? How she go dey give me command for my own car?" He demanded.
"Driver she was polite, to be honest. You were actually the one shouting," the other woman pointed out.
"Thank you," the passenger we were defending shouted, pleased at the unexpected support. I mean, this is after all Abuja where everyone makes a business of minding their business in hairy situations.
"See, get down from my car or I carry you to Gwagwalada," he threatened,foot poised above the accelerator.
"Why not give her N50 now and let her return to her bus-stop?," I told him. Then I played my trump card, "She told you she doesn't know Abuja and she boarded your vehicle at the park. If she goes missing, you'll be in trouble. What's the point of taking her to Gwagwalada and giving her N400 when N50 can settle it now?" I finished. (N400 is approximately a dollar. So N50 is roughly a quarter.)
My statement gave him pause and I could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered a new angle to the whole deal.
"Exactly," the woman behind agreed. "Nigerians can be stubborn. Driver stop trying to prove a point. Just give her the money let her go back. It was you that missed her bus-stop. You're not losing."
With a muttered oath, he flung N50 at the woman and as soon as she alighted, he sped off spewing gravel. I saw the woman's lips curve in a smug grin as she watched him drive off. Oh well, two Daniels came to court for her. What's not to grin about?
Morale of the story? Sometimes, let things go.
Sherina Okoye (2020)
Tuesday 2 June 2020
THE MASKED BANDIT
Post-corona, I and about 200 people went to a certain Bank to make some transactions in the drizzling rain. I know this, because I was number 193😠by 9am in the morning.
Suffice it to say, I almost had a minor heart attack when I saw my number. But I was a woman on a mission; that transaction needed to be done.
My stomach growled repeatedly as I stood beneath the dripping rain and my phone kept ringing incessantly with calls from people I needed to meet with.
I braved the elements and returned to my office for two quick meetings and a healthy snack.
Once I was done, a quick glance at my clock showed the time had moved on to 11:39am.
I returned to the bank only to discover they were still at number 131.
Ninety minutes later, when I could have sworn I could feel the beginnings of a k-leg coming on from so much standing, I finally got into the banking hall, mask firmly in place.
The bank guy was the preppy, happy sort. He deftly carried out my instructions but just before he clicked the final key on his system, he threw me a glance and his fingers were arrested over the keyboard.
"Sorry please could you take off your mask for a tiny minute?"
"Why?" I asked, even though I thought I knew why. I had seen people turned away at the entrance of the very same bank for not wearing a mask. Why did he want me to take mine off? I wasn't going to assume I knew the reason.
"I need to verify your identity."
I swallowed a shout of laughter as I meekly obliged.
Corona is a game changer. A year ago if you had so much as LOOKED at a bank whilst wearing a mask, you would have been cuffed and arrested so fast it would make your ancestors dizzy.
But now, you NEED a mask to enter the bank. Then of course you need to take it off and smile for the cameras so in case the masked bandit isn't you, they can verify your identity or probably have a face to show the cops on cctv.
Corona is a high-maintenance, drama queen. Smh.
Sherina Okoye (2020)
Suffice it to say, I almost had a minor heart attack when I saw my number. But I was a woman on a mission; that transaction needed to be done.
My stomach growled repeatedly as I stood beneath the dripping rain and my phone kept ringing incessantly with calls from people I needed to meet with.
I braved the elements and returned to my office for two quick meetings and a healthy snack.
Once I was done, a quick glance at my clock showed the time had moved on to 11:39am.
I returned to the bank only to discover they were still at number 131.
Ninety minutes later, when I could have sworn I could feel the beginnings of a k-leg coming on from so much standing, I finally got into the banking hall, mask firmly in place.
The bank guy was the preppy, happy sort. He deftly carried out my instructions but just before he clicked the final key on his system, he threw me a glance and his fingers were arrested over the keyboard.
"Sorry please could you take off your mask for a tiny minute?"
"Why?" I asked, even though I thought I knew why. I had seen people turned away at the entrance of the very same bank for not wearing a mask. Why did he want me to take mine off? I wasn't going to assume I knew the reason.
"I need to verify your identity."
I swallowed a shout of laughter as I meekly obliged.
Corona is a game changer. A year ago if you had so much as LOOKED at a bank whilst wearing a mask, you would have been cuffed and arrested so fast it would make your ancestors dizzy.
But now, you NEED a mask to enter the bank. Then of course you need to take it off and smile for the cameras so in case the masked bandit isn't you, they can verify your identity or probably have a face to show the cops on cctv.
Corona is a high-maintenance, drama queen. Smh.
Sherina Okoye (2020)
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