KARMA IS FEMALE

 The last time I was in Lagos was for a one day conference and I was privileged to be there as Rapporteur. 

I reserved my return ticket for that same day since the conference was more like a breakfast session and I had tons of work waiting for me back at the office.

I don't know how you Lagosians manage your happy-go-lucky approach but almost everyone who stays in Abuja positively DREADS Lagos traffic, and I am no exception. So I was understandably on tenterhooks until the end of the event hoping I wouldn't miss my flight despite the fact that I had booked it for about two hours after the event.

 I had arrived a day before, paying about N1,700 or so from the airport to the venue which was somewhere in Onikan because I like to scope out a venue before the event.

After the event, I hurriedly called for a cab via one of those apps (not gonna say which) and as soon as he arrived, I clambered in.

"I hope I won't miss my flight," I groaned once we had exchanged pleasantries. "Please hurry."

The cabman nodded. 

Whenever I'm in a city I don't know well, I turn on my Google maps so I can track if the cabman is going off route and raise an alarm if need be. 

As we drove, the traffic was mild. All of a sudden the guy muttered something under his breath and turned onto another road which was choked with traffic. My map showed he had gone off route. I questioned him immediately and he calmly explained that this was a faster route. I re-routed my map and saw that this new road still led to the airport so I relaxed. 

Brethren, the traffic on this new street was off the charts. I was so frustrated I wasn't sure whether to climb out and trek with my luggage on my head. 

Luckily my flight time was still about an hour away by the time the airport finally crept into view. I heaved a weary sigh of relief, glad to have made it in time. My relief vanished like smoke when he showed me my bill. A whooping N5,500!!!

His smirk told me what he had done. He'd deliberately buried us in traffic to delay the trip and increase his payment. I said nothing. I calmly handed over N6,000 and asked him for my change.

As I alighted, an elderly gentleman strode over and asked if he could drop him off somewhere. Cab Guy eagerly assented as he thrust my change at me.

As soon as the elderly man planted himself in the cab's backseat, a burly young man sped forward like a cat on steroids and clamped the back tire. Several young men hurriedly appeared to help their colleague.

A panicked look crept into the eyes of Cab Guy as he realised he was caught. His elderly passenger alighted and strode off into the sunset with marked unconcern, leaving him to his fate.

Funny enough though he'd cheated me, I tried to plead for him but the guys were having none of it. He was authorised to drop off a passenger but not to pick one up. He would be fined about N25,000 or so, they announced before whisking him away. 

As I walked away, it occured to me that he had deviously inflated my fees through technical fraud and karma caught up with him right away. He would end up paying almost 5 times that sum in penalty and for what? If we had arrived when we should have, he wouldn't have met the old man, wouldn't have been tempted and wouldn't have gotten into trouble. But he tried to cheat me because he saw I was a stranger in his Lagos. 

And Karma came down on my side. Don't knock Karma. She's real. And she's a woman.  😉

I didn't gloat. I genuinely felt bad for him. But it also taught me something I think we should all know: sometimes in trying to hurt others, we hurt ourselves. And that right there is the morale of the story. 

Learn the lesson and share the story. 

Sherina Okoye (Copyright 2020)

THE FOUR YEAR OLD SMOOTH CRIMINAL

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)

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)

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)

PEOPLE OF THE EARTH SERIES: THE UNUSUAL PLANTAIN SELLER

He couldn't have been a day over 17 And yet wrinkle lines were already appearing on his forehead forced into existence by the weight of the basket of plantain chips on his head. His threadbare shorts and well-washed shirt did little to protect him from the harsh cold and yet he didn't betray the condition of his body by a single shiver.
We were all on our way to work and all impatient as we waited for the driver to drive out of the park when the young boy strode up to the car chanting, "Plantain, plantain."
No one answered. Everyone was staring off into the distance lost in thoughts as we all planned the day ahead.
The young boy was undeterred by the stony silence, he kept chanting and trying to cajole us to patronize him. Finally he boldly turned to the equally young man in the front passenger seat. "Brother, help my ministry. Help your younger brother."
All eyes turned to the plantain seller at his unusual approach. The young man he was addressing shifted uncomfortably. Younger brother? I could almost hear his thoughts: he reasoned he would appear very mean now if he "locked up".
Plantain boy wasn't done. "Timaya dey sell plantain before, now naa my turn," he bleated still turning this way and that to show off the golden hue of his plantain chips.
Everyone burst into collective laughter at that and just like that the ice was broken. I called for two pieces, someone else wanted four and in a matter of seconds the young man had sold close to twelve packs of plantains.
As he pocketed his money he eyed us hopefully, "Anybody still want?"
We were all still chuckling at his narrative as we drove off, but his message was clear: he might be a humble plantain seller today but that didn't mean he couldn't be a rock star or celebrity tomorrow.
Morale of the story? Whatever your hands find to do, do it. Take pride in honest work even if it's grueling. Nothing lasts forever

Learn the lesson and share the story.

Sherina Okoye
(c) 2018

ADVISE FROM AN ANONYMOUS GRANNY (I)

I made a new friend. I don't know her name... I think no one does. We all call her "Mama" because we're African and that's the way things are done. I mean as a kid, I almost believed my own mother's name was 'Mum'; I learned otherwise in school.
Back to my story: this woman is old, with skin that's been turned to leather by the sun. But her eyes are alive, intelligent, and vibrant, sparkling with barely suppressed mischief. She throws me a look from beneath white lashes as she points with one gnarled finger and  demands, "My child, naa this corn you want?"
I shake my head and point towards another roasted corn as I respond, "No Ma. I want this one."
She nods, "70 Naira."
A young man appears and points at a corn of a similar size. "70", she wobbles in her weak voice.
I look at her askance, "Is this my corn not 50 Naira?"
She makes a grunt, the sound dissenting. The young man stares at the corn, muses a little then hurriedly picks up his purchase and strides away.
Mama turns to me her eyes alive with mischief as she switches to perfect English. "How much did you say you want to buy it my dear?"
I look at her surprised, "Fifty. But you refused."
She smiles, displaying tobacco coloured teeth. "Learn this my child: never price anything when a man is there. Wait until he leaves then price."
I don't know about you but I've learned that sometimes the greatest wisdom is learned at the feet of the aged. I filed away the information  for the future.
I pull closer, "Why?"
She laughs outright, "Because men never price anything! And the seller will not reduce the price while the man is there."
It made sense. I nod and stretch out a hand to collect my purchase as we trade naughty girly giggles.
Her gaze falls on my empty ring finger and  she stares up at me as she switches back to pidgin and issues a final advise, "If you never marry, make sure say the man naa the type wey no go use clear eye find your trouble.  But if you don already marry kuma, the advise don late be that."
I assure her the advise is not late and offer my thanks. I know there will be more, I think as I walk away, because I'll be going to see her again...
Note: this is a random picture and not the woman in my post.

Learn the lesson and share the story...
Sherina Okoye (Copyright 2018)

THUGGING IT TO 2019

I was so exhausted I could barely see straight as I trudged down the last of the stairs and made my way to the front of my office. My hair was a mess, my face oily, my mood sour as I contemplated the rather long journey homewards .
Lazily I flagged a cab. It slid smartly to a halt in front of me.  I gave the driver my directions but he seemed to think he was in Port Harcourt. He called an outrageous sum of money and too exhausted to argue, I quietly moved aside and turned my face away in an obvious search for another cab. He got the message and zoomed off.
As I waited to flag another cab, I saw them: a group of shabbily dressed young men with wild eyes and body odor that travelled the several feet between us to assault my nostrils. Some were smoking joints openly and it was obvious few of them had seen bathwater in days. Their shabby dressing and uncountable number gave me pause and reminded me of a quote stenciled on one of my old tee shirts: never underestimate the stupidity of boys in a group. Sounds harsh at first glance but I've come to learn that when you see groups such as these, they can only egg each other on to mischief and trouble. They stood out like sore thumbs in the metropolitan area and they had to be close to a hundred of them.
I hid my alarm beneath a facade of boredom and kept looking around for a cab.
They began to file past with  alternate chants of Sai Baba and Fee Dee Fee (pdp). It was hard to know what party they really belonged to but it was apparent that these were a bunch of thugs turned loose on the town pre-election.
A cab finally drew up and this driver was more reasonable than the last. I allowed a few more of the young men to file past and then I walked up to the cab and reached for the door. I yanked it open just as one more joint-smoking youngster drew even with the door. I winced at the crunching sound as metal slammed into flesh and bone.
He yelped and clutched his thigh even as I also screamed and hastily began to apologise, genuine sorrow coursing through me at his apparent pain.
One of his buddies said, "You don wound my brother." The words were like a signal because three of them promptly left their line and  went to lie down on the bonnet of the car.
The "wounded" guy promptly  fell sideways onto the roadside in a dead faint. I threw him a petrified look even as my mind reasoned that there was no way a grown man could be knocked out by a small blow to the thigh. The haze of concern lifted when I noticed the cigarette still dangling from his lips.
"Get up joor. You're fine, " I ordered laughing. He promptly bounced to his feet threw me a laughing look of his own and sketched me a mock bow before striding off with his amigos.
I don't mind telling you I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to watch the chanting, laughing lot disappear around the bend.
Morale of the story? No matter how different we are, we always find something to laugh about together.

Sherina (2018)