Let me first disabuse the minds of those infested with fetid, fertile imagination: I’m as straight as they come; and I’ve only had one face-to-face encounter with the current head of the Federal Road Safety Commission, Boboye Oyeyemi. It happened on the concrete-paved grounds of the FRSC offices in Wuse Zone 7, Abuja; next door to the NAFDAC office facility where the saintly Dora Akunyili once held sway.
Sometime in August 2014, I had initiated the process for the renewal of my National Driver’s Licence. I received a temporary licence with a 2-month validity, and since then, every visit had elicited the worn Nigerian refrain of “check back later.”
On Friday February 13 2105, nearly four months after the expiration of my temporary licence, I received a text message requesting me to collect my licence in Wuse Zone 7 between 10am and 2pm the next day. About 20 minutes to 2pm on Saturday February 14 2015, I came huffing and puffing to the venue. If I hadn’t been cocksure of where I was, I could have sworn I’d just chanced on an INEC Permanent Voter’s Card collection situation. Seated and standing in every available space were hundreds of men and women whose faces mirrored anger and frustration. To make matters worse, the sun was out in all of its infernal glory driving temperatures up to the region of 35°C.
The Presidential election was billed to have taken place that day, but I couldn’t imagine it being as harrowing as what was playing out under the sweltering canopy of the FRSC car park. Paper-clutching officers were scrambling around trying to straighten things out but it was obvious their efforts were falling far short.
Allegations of favouritism were already being bandied around and tempers were predictably beginning to flare. Having just been there for half an hour, I had little justification joining the angst party. Additionally, I had to be at my objective best as I was already contemplating writing about the sorry scenario I knew to be well beneath the towering pedigree of the FRSC.
As I was making mental notes, quite dramatically, the gait and mien of the officers almost instantaneously transmogrified. Grins quickly replaced frowns and cars were re-parked with deliberate dispatch to make room for a two-vehicle convoy – a Range Rover and a Ford Explorer. It turned out the “Oga at the top” himself, officially known as the Corps Marshal, was visiting. With little of the flurry and fanfare usually associated with the itineraries of personalities of his cadre, Boboye Oyeyemi materialized from one of the SUVs dressed like a school Games Master. The one and a half minutes he took to get to the vortex of the fuming crowd was all I needed to match the real man I was seeing for the very first time with the image TV had generously supplied.
He wore this permanent scowl that gave the impression of one adept at contemplation and introspection; like a monk. TV said he was a man of few but choice words and he appeared no different. It was only in the cosmetic matter of his height that I’d been misled. I’d expected a giant in the similitude of Barnabas Jabila, a.k.a. Sergeant Rogers of the notorious Special Strike Force of the dark, murderous Abacha days.
I did not see him talk down on or overtly reprimand any of his over-stressed officers. He listened intently to them and must have suggested how the process could be expedited. Within 30 minutes of his arrival, the crowd had halved; freeing up precious seats for late comers like me.
I was seated and already updating my FRSC narrative when, without warning, that piercing gaze from behind thick lenses was cast in my direction. When he suspected I wasn’t certain it was my attention he sought, he briskly covered the 5 metres that separated us. “So the boss intended attending to me personally?” It was getting really interesting. After supplying the details of the text message sent to me, it took less than 5 minutes for my licence to materialize!
I was so confused with joy that I was torn between genuflecting and somersaulting in appreciation. What I eventually did, I can’t precisely recall. All I vividly remember is that my redeemer was still engrossed with ensuring that none left the premises without his/her licence.
February 14 is touted as lovers’ day or Valentine’s Day after some mythical saint. I have always had a problem with the idea of isolating one day to celebrate what should ordinarily be an everyday experience and reality. I was probably the happiest when INEC’s Jega snatched the initiative from the mercantile and libidinous promoters of Valentine by fixing the presidential polls on the day. Sadly, the polls had to be rescheduled.
So here I was on this most-hyped of days watching a ranking public servant do what I would have sworn could only be found in the history books. That moment my licence was handed to me, I experienced something approximating an epiphany. If many more bosses were like this Boboye dude, we would have been far ahead of where we currently are as a nation. And if this is how Valentine Days panned out, I should since have become a believer.
So you can appreciate why I had to override my principles to make him my Valentine. And I have to add that I’d long identified and fallen for the lyrical, rhythmic and tongue-mangling possibilities of the name – BOB-OYE OYE-YEMI.
One little regret though. That name won’t be appearing on the ballot.

OLUGU OLUGU ORJI mnia
Plot 542 Durumi District, Abuja
nnanta2012@gmail.com
oluguorji.