It all began in the early sixties when the Brits handed over a shiny new car to Nigerians. Not really a charitable act since the car was cobbled together with disparate parts from different parts of that blessed patch of land the Brits once lorded over. Ambitiously they named the car NIGERIA, handed over the keys and left for their dreary island, sniggering in the presumption that the glue binding the parts won't hold and the car will fail. Immediately Nigerians got aboard eager for adventure.

Not long after that, the car was seized at gun point by a bunch of rogue soldiers while the hapless passengers watched. Martial music blared from the speakers. The actual civilian drivers, Nnamdi Azikiwe and Tafawa Balewa, were replaced by gun toting renegades but the renegades didn’t even have the luxury of sitting in the driver's seat before they were ousted by General 'Ironsides' Ironsi. In a twist of fate the new driver had barely gone three miles before a counter group of soldiers kicked him from the seat. Yakubu Gowon, from the North, took over.

The ride was a bit bumpy but to his dubious credit the driver did his best to pacify the grumbling passengers especially as a sizable bunch were on the verge of mutiny regarding the conceived ill treatment of their tribe particularly the previous driver.

Choice seats were occupied by the Northerners, or so it was claimed, and a fair number of fists were raised in threatening gestures.

Suddenly from the eastern corner of the car came a hue and cry about secession, which meant that the aggrieved were carving the rear portion of the car and going their way on two wheels, with or without engines. The petrol tank, after all, was situated at the rear! (Of course the Niger-Deltans occupy that important part of the car, but to the secessionists they were one.) A free for all broke out, windows and heads were smashed, upholstery and skin torn, but the passengers succeeded in subduing the warring faction and an uneasy calm settled. The brain behind the aborted evisceration of the car, Ojukwu, fled out the nearest window.

But the brothers-in-arms had another falling-out when Gowon was booted out by General Murtala who was to last only half a tank of the journey. He too fell to the assassin's bullet and the new driver unmercifully placed upon the passengers was a bit chicken (in many manners of speaking, for he was to become a chicken farmer) when it came to the job.

Tired of the infighting, the passengers called for an election on who to drive all the way to the final destination, wherever that was, and the lanky, tall hat-sporting Shagari emerged winner. Meanwhile the old driver felt managing chickens was less of a challenge and he handed over to Shagari, and retired to his animal farm to tend to birds and goats.

He was destined to resurface later.

Now Shagari could have been a fine driver, but he didn’t have a clue what road to take, so he took the low roads. There was a lot of hair-splitting regarding his navigational skills and this contention built to a crescendo on the eve of another election but the wily driver won by the skin of his nose. He didn’t last long. Another adventurer from the north full of socialist compassion for the passengers took over the driver's seat at gun point and proceeded to drive full speed in first gear, the car screaming on full acceleration but going at a snail's pace. Apparently to this gap-toothed gentle officer hitting the pedal to the metal was a faster way to go top speed rather than changing gears. He almost blindly drove over a cliff until fate sent a Minna Gun Man along to save (if that's your point of view) the helpless passengers. The new driver, surprisingly also gap-toothed, made a few tough changes to the driving system and charged the passengers more, but he promised to later hand over the wheel to an elected civilian. However when time came and a South Westerner won the Minna General invalidated the exercise, handed over the wheel to a befuddled unknown civilian also from the West, and made a hasty retreat to his seat. This civilian, bewildered to find himself placed in such an overwhelming and precarious seat, meekly started the engine, slammed in the gear, and drove in circles. Apparently he felt going nowhere fast was a better option than heeding the angry shouts of the passengers who all had different routes they wanted him to follow.

Sweaty, scared and confused, he looked for help but it came in a form none foresaw. A quiet, introspective, brooding and goggled General took over. This was a no-nonsense man who clearly had a predetermined road in mind.

He drove roughshod and brutally with no fear of potholes and traffic laws (well, he was the law, wasn't he) but at least the car was moving; wobbly, admittedly, but not in circles. His strict demeanor stifled the rancorous horde at the back and for a time progress was made towards a destination only he knew.

Suddenly the driver slumped dead on his seat apparently exhausted by the ordeal of driving such a fickle bunch as Nigerians.

A replacement had to be found since the apparent number two, the conductor, was locked up in a cabin for plotting to overthrow his master (or so they told us) like the military men of yore. A caucus was patched together from a coven of old grizzly Have-Beens, a conglomerate grew from that and a party was formed. The party was called Plain Drivin' Party (PDP) and its chief candidate was the former General turned driver turned goat herder who was cooling his heels in another cabin for allegedly plotting to overthrow the dead driver. This polished, re-branded and refurbished driver claimed God himself gave him the car keys and thus he sat in the seat, put the car in gear, and drove backwards! All pleas and advice fell on deaf ears. He alone knew better. No mere passenger was going to ruffle his feathers! So he drove his way and damn the consequences.

Clearly lost on the dusty trails he looked towards the Israelis and Americans, so good at conjuring Road Maps out of thin air (ask the Palestinians), for help. But not without extracting their pound of flesh, they told him. A trifling sacrifice, he thundered, and proceeded to hand over bits of the cars' parts to them.

With a new road map but absolutely no skills of interpreting them, our gallant ex-General bounded over uncharted, murky terrains safe in his delusions. He took left where he was to take right, slowed on freeways and sped up in traffic, butting off who ever tried to overtake him in a violent road rage that nearly crippled our roads (FERMA had to be created to clean up some of the mess). Someone mentioned driving by the book, the Traffic Regulation and Guideline book (the 'constitution' they called it) but the joy-riding general smacked the offender for daring to question time-spawned (and time-worn, truth be told) grand wisdom honed on a chicken farm.

Halfway on the long road to nowhere the passengers and driver, constantly plunged into gloom on account of the rusty battery, realized that they were actually seven miles behind where they started. The driver, fresh in the wake of a manipulated election (on which he trumped the first gap-toothed ex-driver who now had an ax to grind) decided the best course of action was to buy a plane. So he sold bits of the car (to himself, his cronies and the Israealicans) and emptied half the tank of fuel and sold it off. Also, a new hounding outfit was created to scare the passengers into submission and it had the less catchy name of Exorbitant Fares Collection Commission (EFCC). The creaky old car, badly battered by years of merciless and senseless adventuring, was on the verge of final collapse just as the British thought. Indeed, some in the western world quoted the car a mileage of just 15 miles before it became a heap of scrap.

However the car and passengers persevered even though the radiator was long gone, sold off to Farmer Jones' Trans-Car Corp.

Our gallant soldier-turned chicken minder contrived of a plan to prolong his wild and wacky stay at the driver's seat, but some tumbled, rumbled and utterly road sick politicos ganged up to kill off the "third term" bid of our befuddled driver. In the face of such overwhelming hue and cry the poor generalissimo had to vacate the driver's seat.

But not without swearing revenge!

Quite ruffled, prickled and wallowing in righteous indignation at the effrontery of a few bellicose passengers who dared question destiny our resident despot schemed and plotted and conspired to prop up a terminally ill passenger from the Northern part of the car. he paired him with a quiet, introspective and unassuming hat-wearing sidekick from the south-south part of the car to ride shotgun upfront with the new though spent driver as co-pilot.

brave yaradua! how he tried to navigate the dangerous roads. for most of the journey the car was on autopilot as the driver struggled with grumbling factions and rumbling innards until at last he blew a gasket (and a kidney) and shuffled off this mortal coil for the journey from which no traveller returns.

I wont bore you with the machinations that followed the sickly driver's demise, but suffice it to say that the most bewildered, incoherent, and gaffe-prone driver was ushered onto the hallowed seat, and suddenly the shop-worn mantra of "divine elevation" started making the rounds within the creaky old car. this new driver, the radius of whose hat brim is twice that of the steering wheel took it upon himself to go into cahoots with our gallant chicken soldier for advice and evilry such that poor Johhny-go-lucky will, in the calculations of the general, be reduced to a mere proxy driver.

Anyway, now we stand on the cusp of another round of "selection" to determine who next to sit on the coveted seat. already some contenders (a few serious, most just clowns) are jostling for the job. among them are the two gap-toothed drivers of yesteryear, a mere kid born of dynastic shenanigans, a former cop of dubious resolve, and assorted odds and ends mostly from the North who have thoroughly failed their people in everyday sphere of the human condition but yet are such revellers and joyriders that the adrenaline rush of driving dangerously is an overbearing indulgence, a sort of portent drug to be had at all costs.

Last I heard, the car is still in the wilderness on the high road to nowhere endlessly looking for its destination. They say it's in safe hands . The new driver is still in first gear peering through the wind shield for the best road not taken. We can only pray for him and the steely passengers, for they have endured much. Despite all odds, the glue held. Let us also pray for providence to hasten the ageing process so that the old evil manic general goes back to coo with his pigeons before senility and the other debilitating factors of time ravage what's left of his infamous grey matter.



One has to commend the street car named Nigeria.

DISCLAIMER:

for the benefit of the half wits in this forum, the above is a satirical piece. if you adduce anything political or take it literally then you're solely responsible for your own infantile delusions.

9ce piece as far as I read

Paragraphs 1 and 2

ROTFLMAO

Hilarious and ingenious piece!

Ujujoan:

ROTFLMAO

Hilarious and ingenious piece!

im cooking up a better one to be served hot! its about cooks in the great kitchen, the melting pot, and the theme is "How too few cooks/crooks spoiled the broth"

dappssee:

9ce piece as far as I read

Paragraphs 1 and 2

me too i couldn't go beyond paragraph 2. nothing engaging, i have read a street car named desire and was expecting some thing of same caliber