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Sometime early this month, i experienced a very unique type of hunger that made me remember i had a loving aunt who lived somewhere in town, quite a reasonable distance from school. But distance, wasn't a problem at that moment even though on a normal day, it was something that has always made me reluctant to frequently visit her even after several complains of me abandoning her. But I had in the past, assured her that she was my aunt, and nothing in this world was ever gonna make me abandon her throughout my stay in school, because hunger, i explained to her, was always there to strengthen our bond. And today, I had a promise to keep.
I grabbed my spacious backpack and threw in few clothes though deep down, the plan was to eat her food to not only my heart's but throat's satisfaction, thief anything edible i lay hands on, and run away the next morning after picking the alarm i just set for 9:00am tomorrow while pretending it was an urgent call that just informed me of an impromptu test we were to have that day.
I spent the next 30minutes practising the genuine shock face i was going to use after ending the alarm-call, to look very convincing.... because early last year, gossip was going round the house that my Aunt works for the CIA after she glanced at the covered pot she sternly warned everybody not to touch, knew something was wrong and succesfully tracked down and intercepted the spy who stole a whooping one rope of spaghetti from the pot before he could even swallow it . But the most chilling & fearful part that has earned her the extended family's respect not only as a seasoned Agent but also as a woman of steel, was when in a show of no emotional attachment whatsoever, she let justice run its course by making sure the spy wasn't served any spag when it was time to eat despite pleading guilty and showing remorse for his crime. The spy, was her beloved pampered son, Emma-- the last born.
It was either the driver was speeding too much in my favour, or the hunger, in accordance with Eisnten's Theory of Relativity, was able to bend space and time, cos in no time, we were at Ring road. I alighted and trekked to where i was to enter another taxi to my destination(you see why I hate this journey? ).
Three people were already seated in the small taxi that had scars all over, from the bumper, headlights, to the K-legged tyres which told gloomy tales of all the bitter unforgettable experiences it has had with all the bad roads in Benin city and beyond. One passenger was at the front, two at the back and with myself, all we needed was one more passenger to move. The space left was so small to comfortably accommodate any adult, but any person familiar with the Benin city taxi code constitution will attest that no matter how small the car is, the rule is that: four passengers at the back seat are to pay the driver T-fare, to stand the chance of quarrelling and fighting for space until the passenger with the biggest nyash wins.
When i saw a woman approaching our taxi, i looked at her, looked back at the space she was to occupy, and died inside. Her lap alone was another passenger. This woman was so not meant for the space left in the taxi that the driver had to come down, and forcefully use the door to calibrate her nyash into the back seat at the expense of my hip bone. It was like trying to fit Banky W's head into a medium size ghana-must-go bag and still expect the zip to close. The Car door barely closed.
This woman was sitted for barely a minute and I could already hear other passengers hissing "oh oh" . And at that moment, i didn't know what I, who was directly being crushed by the object of discomfort next to me, was supposed to do. Hiss like others? Or take it to the next level by turning into a snake. The driver kick started the car whose engine coughed to life like it was suffering from sore throat. Deep down, I knew i was going to regret the journey when i noticed the blood flow to my right leg significantly reducing.
All attempts to re-adjust and create more space for myself on the journey was met with disappointment and regret, as each twist and turn signalled i was digging my grave deeper and deeper, because in no time, the only movable part of my body was now my head and to some extent, manhood, which i assure you, acts involuntarily most of the time. This woman, despite knowing that we the passengers, especially myself, was being tormented by her sheer size, was heartless enough to adjust, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was it: all blood flow to major areas of my body was cut-off, most especially my right leg. We were now close to my destination but i was dying. Dying from the fact that i was barely feeling my right leg. My perception of time changed, five minutes was now like an hour, each passing second, an eternity.
I started hissing and adjusting. The woman, having sensed my frustration, turned into a motivational speaker-- motivating me on how i should try and manage before things get better, how it's only a matter of time before she ll drop, to set me free. She kept acknowledging every twist i made with "Bros, sorry" which was supposed to magically heal my now dead leg. I wasnt feeling the leg any longer, like it wasnt part of my body. You know that feeling when you dip ur hand in ice for say, an hour, and take it out? . Many thoughts were running through my mind: what if my leg becomes permanently dead? Why didn't i alight at Ring road and take another taxi when the yokozuna next to me decided to squeeze herself into a space barely one-quater the size of just one part of her nyash?
We got to my Junction and immediately i stepped on the ground, I nearly fell to the ground because my right leg was completely gone. I couldn't even stand straight, i supported myself with my left hand placed on my left leg & that was when the driver knew what i had been going through for the entire stretch of the journey while he was busy happily gisting away with the passenger at the front seat about Buhari's Administration, how his wife now cooks stew with only blended onion and red pepper. He came down to get my bag from the booth cos i couldn't move. The fat woman and other passengers kept showering me with "Sorry ehn" "Sorry, eyah" while I thanked them, most especially the woman, with a grateful "Your Father", in my heart.
The car drove off and that was how i stood beside the road, immobile, like a cripple. I knew if given enough time, the leg was going to get better once blood started flowing freely but i was dead scared in the heat of the moment. The feeling is something words cant describe. Was it the hopelessness? The numbing pain on the leg? The fact that something as stupid and irrelevant as innocently boarding the wrong taxi could change my life forever?
My right leg was now gaining consciousness but the pain that accompanied it was something else. I later found out, according to google, that the pain was as a result of blood rushing through my veins. I stood there for about 45minutes before i was able to walk partially, but still with noticeable discomfort.
I made my way to my loving Aunt's as a survivor, and immediately i opened the door, everybody was caught in a frenzy: the prodigal son had arrived.
They were so happy to see me, and I was so so happy to see them too, cooking. Source: ksslib 4 Likes 2 Shares |
