It is Sunday morning. I am a stubborn sleeper. My fingers find and
silence my phone when the alarm goes off at 5am. My mind silences the muezzin
in the mosque in front of my house as he begins his sweet call to prayer shortly
after. They are not enough to rouse my sleepy head. But when the dozen
motorcycles begin to roar away from the mosque after the Morning Prayer, I
cannot sleep any longer.
It used to take me a lot of adjusting to make the daily mental transition
from the concrete and glass jungle that is Abuja city where I work to the dingy
satellite settlement, Lugbe, 20 kilometers away, where I call home. Moving from
Lugbe to the city centre used to feel like the sudden burst of a halogen lamp
after being in pitch darkness for so long. I used to feel self-conscious when I
first moved here, wondering if people could tell by looking at me, that I had
travelled 20 kilometers to get to town.
Some days it feels like Lugbe is chucked away, to the side, in the dark
shadows of Abuja city- the days when, driving home at night I miss my turn
because the lights I use as a signpost aren’t turned and every junction looks
the same; days when I wake up on Sunday morning and find that none of the two
functional ATM machines in Lugbe work and I have to make the long 40kilometer
round trip just to get some cash; days when I stroll past Malam Haruna’s wooden
provision store, which doubles as a house and see scores of young men coming
out of shacks made of wood and old cement and rice bags.
On other days when I feel thankful for cheap restaurants like Iya Alaje
whose rough stew and fish is just as I like it, for the effectiveness of
motorcycles which are banned in the city, for a rent I can afford, I am careful
not to romanticize poverty, privation and the absence of government.
Lugbe as a settlement has no running water and the sale of water from
boreholes is big business. Men push carts through the streets carrying yellow
20-litre water gallons.
I walk into the bathroom and discover my 50-litre bucket is empty as are
the two smaller buckets. I wait for the sound of clanking metal which is how
the water sellers announce their presence. In Lugbe one learns to master sounds
and calls. A series of clanks done to a rhythm is the water seller. The jingle
of flattened bottle corks is the cobbler. The call “Trade by barter” sung
repeatedly as “traybabata” is from the guy who gives exchanges plastic
containers for old clothes or household items, “Doze-bee!” is the garbage
collector and the call “digiway poto-poto comot” which is an attempt to say
“Digging well, Poto-poto (mud) comot (out)” announces the guy who cleans
abandoned wells or fixes collapsed wells.
I recognize the water seller passing by and call out to him in Hausa.
“Galan biyu”, I tell him and he brings out two gallons from his cart. I
think of asking him if there is a rule mandating all the water sellers to use
only yellow gallons. I have never seen a water seller with a white or black
water gallon even though these are easily available in the market. As I take
the first gallon into my bathroom I smile and decide that it is a silly
question to ask.
***
Sandra runs the drinking joint that has no sign post or business name. We
just call the place Sandra. My neighbor and I like to come here on Sunday
because it is close to Iya Alaje, the only decent restaurant that sells food on
Sunday morning. We ask one of the attendants to go get us rice and fish.
Sandra converts from a drinking joint in the day to a
brothel at night. In the day time, the sex workers mill about, smoking,
chatting or washing before their work hours begin. Occasionally a desperate
customer will show up in the day time and the sex worker will frenziedly drop
all else, rush a bath and prepare to do business. Unlike brothels in the city-
most of which operate in the shadows- Sandra
is smack in the heart of residential Lugbe, loud and confidently carrying on
business. I am friendly with one of the sex workers here. Like many of the
other girls, most people have no idea what her birth name is, apart from
“African Queen” which is her business name.
African Queen is sprawled out on one of the couches- Sandra does not get
much patronage on Sunday mornings. As we walk in to sit, she sits up and says
hello. She smiles what I call her business
smile.
My friend asks her where she is from. Enugu, she says. There is
something both sad and curious about African Queen. While she is the most
popular sex worker in Sandra, she is
also the most humble and courteous. It is hard to find her screaming or
fighting, something that happens regularly here. I risk her becoming suspicious
or aggressive and ask her why she is here in Lugbe.
Through a somewhat incoherent narration, I am able to glean certain facts-
she is from Enugu, is from a large family and goes home every month to convince
her mother she is actually in school, studying. She does not give me a pathetic
story of poverty and privation.
“I no like to dey ask anybody for money,” she says. “If you ask man for
help, all of dem want to fuck you. Nobody want to help you without getting
something. And me, I want things. So I do what I can to help myself.”
I am both impressed and saddened by the honesty in her story. I ask her
why she chose the outskirts, why she chose dingy Lugbe over the city.
“When I dey for East, den tell me say, if I just come Abuja, fuck man just
a night, I go get 50,000. Na im I come. But when I come, I see people dey prize
me 4,000. When I ask, why, dem come tell me say, dat one na for town. By den I
don already start.”
She tells me of men who took her for the night and abandoned her without
payment. She remembers one who felt bad, because she didn’t react aggressively
and came back the following day to pay what he owed. And then of course there
is Sandra who regularly slaps and punches her sex workers sometimes for
offenses as little as being ‘rude’.
Lugbe casts a shadow even over African Queen. I leave Sandra, with a bellyful of rice and
fish, grateful for little privileges.
As I take a shortcut through a particularly muddy road back home,
thinking how I will need to buy more water to wash up, I feel sad at how much
acceptance there is of the lack of government presence in the Federal Capital
Territory, as close as 20 kilometers from the city centre. I think of how,
although much of the manpower and labour that services the city pours into it
daily from settlements like Lugbe, this place sits sadly in the shadows of
Abuja.
I wonder if the President who passes by almost every other week on his
way to the airport, knows that African Queen and I cannot get something as
basic as running water.
I lay down in my room and wait for electricity so I can iron my clothes
for Monday. I hear the sound of thunder. The darkening clouds darken my room. I
know I will wait a long time for the electricity.
Wow. . .beautiful. The speckled hue of poignance and the staring reality of the whole story makes it a worthy read. I like.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteEngaging...
ReplyDeleteThis is a strong post, I admire the fusion between different experiences to create one beautiful story.
ReplyDeleteMr.John is slowly becoming a favourite
ReplyDeleteThe sad realities of life
ReplyDeleteThis man sure knows Lugbe. The absence of the benefits of good governance are profound. No good roads, no street lights, no banks, absolutely nothing to show for being one of the oldest satellite towns in Abuja. BIG SHAME.
ReplyDeleteIn my village they also use yellow jerry cans. I live in literally other side of town.
ReplyDeletei love the realism, excellent writing