Pardon my lack of sense of introduction.

Do not say I was not taught well by mother. In fact, I was brought up in a house that took greetings as their first meal.

I write with pains from dissapointment, therefore, pay less attention to my arrogance.
If perhaps I was told the yellow sun might never rise, I would have have been more resilient.

This is not a story, it's an open diary !

A ride through Otukpa, it is very easy to pay less attention to the shabby environment. Of course! It's by fact a conventional setting of the god-forsaken Benue. The women almost pulling down your door, begging you to buy a bunch of her banana, else, her daughter would starve to death. At least she's thriving to feed her family rather than sit with her husband under the umbrella and take a sip from his sachets of 'boss man liquor'. Maybe one shouldn't blame them; they have taken poverty as a tradition.

A few miles down of what we might help to call a "town", you can't help but look out for the next sign post. Why? ! Why not?!!! Who wouldn't like to know his current geographical location when a town begins to grow into a forest with Gas Stations.
Gullies that could swallow up cars and abyss that could swallow trucks.

Though beautiful women with pointed Nose and dirty feet -a courtesy stamp from the dusty road. The people hardly stare at a luxury vehicle. I could even tell that not even the old man wearing a red traditional cap and a regalia like that of a peacock -did.
I watched him drag each pace and I pitied that his scepter would fall off, if his journey didn't terminate soon -maybe even by joining the ancestral Kola-nut eaters.
His face shrieked when he dashed his foot against a stone.
I could giggle when I watched him pull in his lips like that of Sam Loco; but I meant to say it to his face "if your ancestors had well appeased the gods, that stone wouldn't have grown out of an asphalt pavement.
I would be wicked to tell him.

He was concerned about the potential durability of his sandals made of maybe leather or fabricated from the scrap of a truck tyre -either one, that old man needs his son to get him another.

I was concerned about which curses to heap on the shirtless man who distracted the old man by signalling respect. I watched the shirtless man carefully, his pot belly like he just swallowed a full goat without chewing, his breast like my grandma who feels hot always, and his Lips were tattooed - a souvenir of youthful vanity.
Although I might underestimate his weight, I can tell that he would catch up with our vehicle much faster if I said anything offensive.
I will save the curse for another day and on a smoother route.

One would wonder; to whom were the defunct Gas Stations selling to; If they ever did?
These kiosks sell to who? Do all these people vanish through the narrow paths into the forest?

A second careful look into the forest, one would find houses and mansions living among trees.
No doubt, it was an habitat for the trees, tall grasses, palm trees, but somehow, till this day, the houses seems to tussle.
If the supervising Architects couldn't advise the owners of the Gas Stations to choose another suitable location for their business, they could at least advise that the bushes covering the aesthetic features of the mansions be cleared.

To believe this was part of the state that housed that bearded warlord, one would be quick to assume the forest-like town was part of a strategy to win a looming war.

One thing was very common to find on the road, it was traveling busses. PMT was most common and I wondered why people would even consider to come frequently to this part of the country.
It's worrisome to find their park in such a place. I will never use PMT motors.

Although the vehicle I was in can't be stopped because it carried a King; No doubt, I am king among mere mortals - we however, were delayed not only by the roads riddled by gully superlatives, but by unnecessary traffics formed by the presence of the poverty stricken uniformed men.
They searched vehicles rigorously like they expected a shipment from the men who lives in the North but faces the east to pray.
They had reasons for the search, they know many wealth were ill-gotten.
From one checking point, a look in a near distance, one could sight the next log of woods placed roughly across the road, yet the same dirty hunger striken bastards. No offense intended, yet no apologies offered; Mongrels of uncertain origin, clothed in different shades of black, others,dirty green; all scampering for their potential victims.

I wish I would not talk about the men who were supposed to defend the nation in the war front. I wish my half brother was not part of these cowards, but how would he have escaped from the terrible blows of hunger if not for their monthly stipend.
They pitched their own shop not too far from the Police.
Not standing up for your own actions is a show of cowardice , and these men proved accordingly.
As we drove past the queue of vehicles waiting to pay their oppressors; of course, you wouldn't think a vehicle conveying a king of my status, be stopped. An old ragged man stumbled into the road. He must have thanked his Obi for yet, sparing his life. He would never have thought any car would be confident and graced to move at an average speed especially in the presence of the whip wielding uniformed men.
Dear reader, don't be mistaken. The ragged man wasn't just crossing the road, he was assigned a duty by the men meant to protect him. He was empowered to collect money from vehicles and deliver to them while they had their break.
Now, if perhaps, a royalty of my status decides to question why the old man extorted people on their behalf , they would deny and claim he was just a beggar! . Effeminate superlatives they are!!

Bunch of pusillanimous mental geldings!!

If the breast of my mother was still firm as that of the lady who sold fried pieces of yam to my driver earlier in the journey, I would have held it tightly and place an echoing curse on who ever managed the affairs of VIO. Writing about these dirty jobless people makes me want to puke. Am I supposed to mention the rickety Mercedes Benz 190 used as an official vehicle,or the head to toe unkept men struggling with themselves who would keep the new hundred Naira note.
I understand that, there's been an all round circulation of old hundred Naira notes, but do they realize they all carry the same value?

"Goodbye to Obollo eke, Welcome to Obollo Afor" then written in a bold red italic is "state of the Gburugburu "
Obollo or Ogbono? I never thought a place would be given such a name. I mean, the only thing I know with such a name is the Ogbono soup,if correctly pronounced: made from pumpkin seed, I presume. Whatever, where I just came out from looks no where close to what could be described as been delicious.

The settings changed gradually as we moved; at least the trees reduced and I could see a clear sky unlike the previous town where a careful look into the tree canopies, one could find its shadows dotted with stars.

Traffic worsened despite the absence of check points.
There were story buildings which lacked latest architectural trends. They carried various
business names yet deserted. Either people can't afford to patronize whatever they sold or they could only afford to rent smaller shops and kiosks.
A slight shift by the buildings, a little forward from their positions, they would spill unto the road.
My sanity was put to test when I found us choked in between yellow buses and yellow tricycles. Lagos! Lagos? It can't be. Never!
But the unending traffic looked like we were.
If the traffic ever ended, I can't tell.
Gburugburu sign boards everywhere: perhaps, this is not Lagos.

So many roundabouts and even Google Map had to offer it's apologies for giving wrong then right directions.
No road had features to tell that it lead to a Governor's residence.
Perhaps, he ran his state from another State.

"Driver, just find a route out of this place. There is not enough air to go round"

Just as we approached a flyover, a large banner said "Enugu State is in the hands of God"
I agree!! I absolutely agree!!!
As if that would not convince me, the same banner was hung high on the next flyover. It meant to confirm the first banner.

"At 100meteres, take your right, and in no time, you will surely breathe fresh " Google Map was sure this time.

If I stayed conscious a few much longer, I'll definitely smash this Chinese man's head against the car window. Garlic again! That smell again -disgusting son of baboon!
OH! It wasn't him, it's my police escort! If not for his rifle, I would choke him against the head rest.

The road got better and better, the air was indeed fresher. The road median and kerbs had lights on them. The street light turned on and off rhythmically. A good sight to behold. The grasses on these sides were green and seemed to extend into the clouds.

"Are you scared?" asked the Chinese.
Scared that what? I almost rudely fired back.
I had not paid attention to their discussions.
"They said people from this part eat visitors"
And he giggled foolishly.
He was foolish because he didn't realize he is more of a visitor than I, as thus, while I'm been cooked as stew, the plates in which he was served are been washed.

Ride on!!

"We are already in Abakaliki" said the police man.
I remembered where everything changed; the checking point that separated that slum of a state from a State.

A quick Google Search, I found Ebonyi to be created in the year 1996. How it managed to look beautiful as the overrated Victoria Islands, and the Lekis of Lagos is what it's mother, the home of the incompetent Gburugburu should have a deep thought about.

It's a shame to imagine that Gburugburu's home was once a capital of the Ikemba's dream.
A slap on the face of the five columned country. No wonder the yellow sun never rose. The reinforcement were below the engineer's specification.

The descendants of Emeka have plucked his beards, strand after strand, and the Ikemba's skull is ripped open with the blade of an axe.

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