If a dollar was given for each time someone was anxious, the Forbes Billionaire list would be an all-Nigerian affair. Every activity, every encounter, every condition a Nigerian faces is greeted with the same nervous apprehension.

If a Nigerian wakes up in the morning and discovers there’s no electricity, he quickly unplugs his phones and laptop, and switches off the TV and fridge; he is afraid that overcurrent would blow up his appliances when NEPA* is restored.

If he wakes up and there’s power, he scrambles to plug his phones and laptop, and rushes to iron his clothes; he is afraid that they will take the light* at any moment.

If he lives in Lagos, he dives in and out of the bathroom and before you could say Bode Thomas, he is dressed up and on his way out; he is afraid of the city’s mad morning traffic.

If he has to take a bus on his way, he frantically scans all the passengers before embarking; he is afraid of entering one-chance*.

If he’s lucky to own a car, his heart races each time he sees a road-block ahead; he is afraid the policemen might be high on paraga* – the catalyst for accidental discharge.

If he drives past a filling station and sees two cars at the pump, he considers joining them; he is afraid NUPENG with their fuel scarcity are back.

If he is a university or poly student, the moment he alights he feverishly begins to read the lips of every passer-by; he is afraid they might just be mouthing the words ASUU strike or tuition hike.

If he has graduated and is unlucky to still be in the job market, he shakes his head as he peruses the Tuesday Guardian; he is afraid the vacancy ads were taken out by one of the employment rackets.

If he works in the bank, he’s always imagining the emails in his Inbox; he is afraid that HR has sent him the unsolicited ‘Advised to Resign’ mail.

If he sees someone with unkempt hair and dirty clothes on his way to lunch, he crosses to the other side of the street; he is afraid he’s just seen one of the many itinerant mentally-ill persons.

If he has to use the ATM, he becomes one with it. He covers it with his whole torso and takes frequent glances over his shoulder; he is afraid someone behind him is spying his PIN.

If the ATM works and coughs out the money, he quickly counts it before leaving the spot; he is afraid of being short-paid.

If the ATM doesn’t work and returns his card to him, he swiftly digs out his phone; he is afraid of getting a debit SMS alert, even though he wasn’t paid.

If he enters a mobile-phone shop, he asks for dual SIM phones and wonders when the triple SIM versions will be available; he is afraid of relying on only one subscriber and getting disappointed by dropped-calls.

If he has to see the doctor (when they are not on strike), he doesn’t want to be told he needs blood transfusion; he is afraid the lab may be out of reagents for screening HIV, hepatitis etc.

If he’s given a prescription, he gets it at the pharmacy and immediately checks the box for the NAFDAC number; he is afraid of being sold fake drugs.

If it’s Election Day, he is torn between going out to vote and staying indoors; he is afraid the election may be militarized or that thugs with huge biceps will show up and ‘kidnap’ the ballot box.

He doesn’t trust the boys in khaki or the boys in babariga* with the government of his nation; he is afraid the military would kill with impunity and the civilians will steal with impunity.

As if that is not enough, lately he’s had to be all eyes for every bulging plastic bag he comes across and every stationery vehicle he passes on the way; he is afraid Boko Haram has left one of their booming packages behind.

But, I know a better Way: I will allow peace, yes I’ll embrace Peace.

Written by Segun O. Adio (culled from http://truthlabel..com)

NEPA and light: words interchangeably used for electricity
One-chance: kidnappers disguised as a bus service
Paraga: moonshine
Babariga:

Nice try

... but really it isn't funny. We can't keep going this way.