Maybe I don’t know you too well, or perhaps I do. But here’s a tip of what happens when men die and their souls wander about, seeking passage to the great beyond. This job is tiring. I’ve been at it for so long that I can perform the whole routine in my sleep. Of course, it’s ironic that I don’t sleep. Cursed to guide people to a place I cannot dwell, I find solace in their stories. I’ve seen people who did not know they were dead until I asked for their coins, and their jaws dropped. Husbands have begged me to return them to their wives, and others were glad to be reunited with their long-lost loved ones.
I’ve heard and seen so much that nothing shocks me anymore. When you’ve heard stories of people and places, nothing can ever take you by surprise again. I’ve written a lot about the people I’ve encountered on this job. At their gravesites, the people they leave behind say, “They’ve left this cruel world, and have now found peace.” If only they knew. If only they could experience the pain of uncertainty felt before judgment, maybe they wouldn’t seek comfort in those words.
Today I met a man.
Like every other young man that had come my way, he had tears in his eyes and told me he did not deserve to die. I laughed. No one thinks they deserve to die, but death is inevitable. He takes people when they are happiest and leaves their families in turmoil. I could care less about death, but he is the reason I have a job. I’m grateful for my post, but I sometimes wish I didn’t have such a hard-working boss. He should leave little children with their parents, and let shoulders return to their waiting wives.
When death drops people at my door, they come in what they died in. A lady once came wearing a towel. She had slipped in the bathroom, but Death was kind enough to let her grab her towel before bringing her to the other side. The man I met today wore a suit. It's not unusual to have people arrive in suits, but only a particular demographic comes with suits and laptop bags. He was Nigerian. I love having Nigerians on my rides; they are mostly comical, and their stories have me smiling for hours.
There was a time I met a lady who told me her husband collapsed their house on her, and she died from carrying the whole family on her back. Further discussions proved her husband was a serial cheat, and she had to fend for her family by herself. She died while working at a construction site. Another man came along and said his country killed him. He spent all his years working as a civil servant, and when he retired, his pension never came. He died on his way to the bank to complain.
“Sir, I’m a Christian, and I believe in heaven and hell. It would be greatly unfair if I end up in hell because that would be my second time.” His demeanour was defeated. People’s first questions never revolve around their destination; they always ask about where they were at that point.
“Why do you say so?” I folded my hands and sat at the side of my boat. I did not paddle; instead, I allowed the boat to flow with the current. His story seemed interesting, and I yearned for every detail.
“I’m Nigerian. That’s enough hell for two lifetimes.” I laughed at the mention of that country. Their leaders always feared judgment, but their citizens had this spirit of ‘nothing could be worse than what we faced in our previous life’.
“Oh, you’re Nigerian! I love having you people on my boat.” He smiled. His eyes sparkled at the sound of familiarity, and he chuckled for a few seconds. I don’t know why, but he seemed relieved that I knew where he came from.
“My country's people have shown themselves here again, right? They do not waste time. Once they discover a new place, before you know it, you’ll perceive the aroma of our Jollof in the air.” He stopped and stared at the dark sky as memories cropped through his mind. I could tell he had a lot to say, but again, he looked like he had said a lot without anyone listening to him before. I placed my hands on him, nudging him to continue his story.
“Your hand is cold, o.” He jerked away from me and hid his hands.
“Let me even tell you how I got here sef.” Finally, he was going to tell me the story. I had a lot of guesses about how he ended up with me. Maybe he had an accident in Lagos traffic or slept on a bus and never woke up after offending an older woman. I allowed him to tell his story.
“You see, this morning, I woke up with one goal in mind: go to work and come back. Have you been to Lagos before? Of course, you’ve not. It’s a jungle with luxury. I wouldn't say I liked it there, but I had to stay to earn decently. Not many states have tech startups, so most of us in tech work in Lagos. It was Monday. I wore my suit, not because I liked it, but because I didn’t want to get harassed by policemen since I had a laptop with me.” His hands ran through the embroidery designs on the laptop bag. It seemed like something he regularly did whenever he was absent-minded.
“On my way out, I remembered I didn’t turn off my tap. I rushed back to put it off, but I’m unsure if I did. We’ve not had light since Friday, and water went this morning, so I paid Ahmed, the gateman, to fetch my bathing water from a place down the street. I didn’t want to come back from work and meet my house flooded, in case they brought light and we pumped water.” These problems of light and water always make me laugh; only Nigerians complain about this when they come. I wanted to laugh, but that would make me a lousy conversationalist. I just said “oh” and “ahh”, exclamations I picked up from other Nigerians.
“I got into the bus, and two passengers were fighting the conductor for change. They both gave the man #1000 notes for a #150 ride. Don’t worry, e burst my head too. That’s how Lagosians do; they like wahala. Apart from that fight, the ride was quiet until they stopped us.” His body looked energised, and his hands started to move all over the place.
“They brought out guns and shouted at our driver to stop. I didn't even have a problem with them stopping us o, but you see, the guns they were just waving at our faces were frightening. I’ve heard stories about these guys beating people anyhow, and I wasn’t ready to be a victim. They told us to come down. They searched us individually and separated about 3 of us from the passengers. We were “suspicious”, and they had to take us for questioning. Can you believe that? Even with my suit o! No yawa. We got to the police station, and they said I was a yahoo boy.” His head shook vigorously on his neck, and I noticed his neck was tiny for the size of his head.
“Me, I kuku said I’m not a yahoo boy, and I was ready to drag it with them; when we’re not all mad. If they had that same energy with our politicians, we’d have light and water o! We dragged it, and they said they’d shoot me and nothing will happen. Omo, e weak me.” He was serious but funny at the same time. His mannerism had tears streaming down my eyes from holding my laughter in. The way his hands moved, and the “o” and “sha” were intriguing. I guess I’ll add some to my lingo.
“You no fit do anything o. They no even born una well. E no sure for you. I opened my eyes, and this guy kept a gold coin in my hands. He seemed like he was in a hurry. He told me my time was up, and I should follow the path that leads to the sea. Na so I find you o. If I go to hell, omo everywhere go red.” We got to our destination, and I dropped him off. I wish I know where he ended up, but my post is the journey, not the destination. I’m only a means to an end.
Heyyyy, how was your week? In the spirit of consistency, I fought against sending this out tomorrow. I hope you love it. If your answer is yes, do leave a comment and also, share. See you next week.💛
It was a fascinating read, very well crafted and precise.