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)

BANK AFFAIRS AND CHILDISH INNOCENCE

She was cute as ten buttons in her lovely little flowered frock. Her hair had been styled into a cute little bun atop her little head and her feet were encased in flowered socks and a shiny black shoe. She ran into the compound of the bank flapping her hands with excitement and somehow still managing to maintain her running steps in that charmingly uncoordinated way kids have.
Her father, a staunch Muslim, as apparent from the dark sign on his forehead and his dressing,  strode in after her at a much more sedate pace. He called after her and she raced back to his side, snatched a pen from his hand and raced back towards the firmly shut doors of the bank.
She was such a blur of movement it was almost dizzying watching her.
All adults lined before the two ATM machines in the bank's compound turned to watch her in fascination. She was a breath of fresh air; so full of life and vitality and that unnameable quality that makes kids so precious.
The little girl stood expectantly before the bank doors while her father calmly joined the back of the ATM queue, keeping an eagle eye on her.
When the doors didn't open, her little face puckered in a childish pout, her equivalent of a frown, as she banged imperiously on the doors. They still stayed shut and she turned to the appellate court: her father.
I could see her surprise when she saw him standing a good few feet away at the back of the line rather than joining her to command the doors to open.
"Daddy!" She yelled, the command apparent. He was supposed to appear beside her at once and order whoever was in charge to open the doors at once!
He shook his head, surprisingly calm since the rest of us were already fighting giggles. "Today is Sunday. The Bank doesn't work on Sundays," he explained.
She considered it for a minute. I could see the thoughts whirling in her head. Then she demanded, "Why not?"
Her father shook his head, "They just don't."
"But WHY?" the little girl repeated.
Her father sighed, still maintaining his position on the ATM queue as he ordered, "Rahila come back here."
A mutinous expression crossed her face and she morphed into a 'child of anger'. She flung her father's pen onto the inter-locked grounds of the bank's compound.
"I want to enter," she yelled as if that fact wasn't already obvious.
Apparently she was giving us all one last chance to redeem ourselves. When she was met with silent, staring adult faces, she opened her mouth wide in a scream of pure childish rage and let fly.
...And that's how the tantrum started. 😄😄😄

A DAY IN COURT: YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE

The five justices of the Supreme  Court were in a good mood; that much was apparent from their calm handling of the defective application before them.
The Respondent's Counsel, Mr ABC, had filed a preliminary objection on issues of jurisdiction. Rather than chewing Counsel out, the court courteously asked how he wanted to proceed.
With much confidence and ASSURANCE😉😉😉 ABC proceeded to begin to move the defective application. (Here's a tip completely on the house: lawyers will attempt to get away with anything if you let them).
The Appellants' counsel Mr XYZ, jumped to his feet and objected stridently. He informed the court that the application could not be heard. No big surprise. According to the Rules of Court, the preliminary objection should have been subsumed in the Respondent's Brief.
Yours truly kept whipping her head this way and that watching as the lawyers argued back and forth. I have since learned in this profession that a child who asks questions never loses his way. And that's why I never go to court on any given day without opening my eyes and ears wide to pick something here and there.
Law practice is an art and like all arts, you attain a certain elegance when you study the masters.
Anyway, the Court was quick to agree with Mr XYZ, the Appellants' counsel that Mr ABC, had filed a defective application possibly in order to waste the time of the court.
Defeated, Mr ABC withdrew the offensive application  and requested an adjournment to effect the correction.
Seeing the court's sympathy for his argument, the other lawyer, Mr XYZ began to milk it. He was elderly and stooped with age, cutting a fragile figure.
He tilted his head to the side as he rose to his feet and  began to wring his hands as he listed his many sufferings at the hands of the Respondent's counsel. By the time he was done, a passerby might have been moved to tears on his behalf.
"So, Mr XYZ what is your application?" The Presiding justice demanded, after we had all been subjected to an endless litany of his woes.
Counsel puffed up his cheeks and let out a put-upon sigh as though considering the matter. And then with great reluctance stamped onto his angular features, he said, "My lords we shall be consenting to an adjournment to enable Mr ABC put his house in order. But we shall be requesting a minimal cost of N100,000 Sirs."
The bench dissolved in laughter as their lordships engaged in a rare show of hilarity. "You want 100 thousand? In this economy? Mr XYZ!"
And they laughed some more.
Mr XYZ silently resumed his seat in dignified silence.
"Did you hear him Mr ABC? He asked for 100 thousand," one of them shouted down to the other lawyer against whom the cost was demanded.
Mr ABC  got to his feet, hesitated in the face of five laughing judges and equally sat down himself joining in their laughter.
I threw him a worried glance. Wasn't he going to oppose the application at all?
He wasn't looking at me; he and other lawyers were laughing along with their lordships... it was the polite thing to do.
I faced forward, sober as a judge; and no the irony was not lost on me.
Three minutes later, after managing to scribble a few words whilst fighting down their laughter, the Justices quieted.
The Presiding Justice raised his head, "Cost of 100 thousand granted as prayed. Case adjourned to 23rd October 2018."
I felt shock reverberate through Mr ABC who  happened to be seated right beside me. He threw me a glazed look as he tried to figure out how to inform his client of the costs he had just earned him. He had apparently thought it would not be granted or at least not the full sum; perhaps 50?  He leaned over and whispered as much to me in dismay, "They granted the full amount"
I let my unsympathetic gaze do the talking for me,  "You snooze you lose."
He had not opposed the application so of course it was granted. Equity aids the diligent... in law, and in life.