It Happened to Me

By Dr. Tabowei

This manuscript titled "It Happened to Me" was a true life story (names of persons and places have been changed though).
It was an event that spanned over a year.
It portrayed a young, intelligent specialist surgeon who travelled to abroad in search of greener pasture, although he had a good job and was well respected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Sep 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453576212

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Dr. Tabowei.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2010913670

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4535-7620-5

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4535-7619-9

ISBN:   Ebook   978-1-4535-7621-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

300547

I dedicate this book, ‘It Happened to Me’ to

my lovely parents Eunice Tabowei and Ebenezer Tabowei.

CONTENTS

Synopsis

The Journey to Abuja

Safe landing at scallop’s Int’l Airport-Holland.

Airborne to America

Arrived at Caracas-South America.

Another Miracle

Arrived Guatemala

Arrived Belize

Nostalgic Feelings

Picnic

Visit to the Correction Centre

Telephone Saga

My Room

An Email from Home

At Last

To Be or Not to Be

A Timely Piece of Advice

Never Given Up Plan to Go Home

Ominous Signs

Uncle Is Dead

Finally at Dangriga

Back to Belize

News of Father’s Death

A Farewell Party

My Journey Home Begins En Route America

Arrived America

Mike Picks Me

A Memorable Day

Back to London

Arrived Great Britain

God Is Good

An Unexpected Rousing Reception

Back to Abuja

Back to Base

Shocking News

More Shocking Bad News

Synopsis

This manuscript titled ‘It Happened to Me’ was a true life story (names of persons and places have been changed though).

It was an event that spanned over a year.

It portrayed a young, intelligent specialist surgeon who travelled to abroad in search of greener pasture, although he had a good job and was well respected.

He like many unsuspecting individuals had the erroneous belief that once in abroad all financial burden will be over.

These belief was reinforced by the opulence and pretentious way of life those who had lived abroad when they visit home.

Despite sincere counsel by both friends and relations, who had travelled abroad, he still cast their words aside and undertook the journey.

He undertook a risk by travelling a distance of about five hundred kilometres sitting down on the floor of a bus.

His aspiration was shattered when he got to America. Rather than accepting him as a specialist doctor, the authority doubted the genuineness of his claims and refused to post him out to their hospital. The authorities doubted if a specialist could be trained in an African country, more so when he claimed ignorance of what the Internet was.

He was redundant, was roaming the street, and nearly got caught up with some criminal activities, but for his strict home background.

Left with no option, he found his way home. This presented another challenge. He was treated like a leper by his immediate family members for coming back to Nigeria, which they considered was next to hell. Besides this, both friends and relatives felt he had come back from abroad and as such have made a lot of money. They wanted to partake from the bounty. They exhibited their ignorance by placing pressure on him to be the chairperson of any little get together. Some physically demanded money.

Based on the falsehood, his kid brother, who was studying law at the university, left school and travelled abroad, after undertaking a dangerous journey through the desert.

He was arrested in Germany and deported home. He became a drug addict. He lost out both his education and self-esteem.

Many young, intelligent, and educated people still have such false feelings that once abroad, your entire financial problem are solved.

Reading through this book, ‘It Happened to Me,’ those who intended to migrate to other places would understand that not all that glitters is gold. Our culture is different. The food is another obstacle. Dollars are not picked on the street of Europe or America. It also highlighted the humiliating experience Nigerians go through to obtain visas and the dehumanising search we were subjected to once abroad.

It will be interesting read to young school leavers, graduates, and other individuals who are nursing the idea to migrate abroad.

Home is home, no matter what!

Belize is in Central American Republic. It is the world’s meeting point. It is a country of mixed races and colour. It lies almost directly along the equator, and the direct sunrays make it hot and humid. The main occupations includes: fishing, farming, and tourism.

They predominantly share the same culture with the Ashanti’s of Ghana, the Ijaws and the Efiks of Bayelsa, and Cross River state of Nigeria, respectively.

They are loyal, devoted, and patriotic people. Classed as a developing nation, the people are closely knitted together as one. Like in such societies, foreigners are not easily accepted, especially by the elites of their society.

I have heard many times that my great country Nigeria has an image problem abroad. This meant little or nothing to me until I travelled to Belize in Central America. Scales fell off my eyes, and I came to understand what a national image really is. It is sad to state here that Nigerians are treated worse than even lepers abroad. The hatred is so intense that one could cut through it with a knife.

As a black man, alighting from an aeroplane, you are treated as a suspected criminal. But as a Nigerian, you are politely separated from others.

A thorough examination is conducted. You may be lucky to be scrutinised in the open; otherwise, you are taken to an inner room, where in addition to the dehumanising and inappropriate palpation, a fierce and ready to devour dog is allowed to sniff through your person. It is a very nauseating experience, which is better told than experienced. Words alone cannot fully express the emotions, the psychological paralysis, and the defeat that trail you.

As if the humiliations are not enough, your papers are unscrupulously scrutinised. The ‘i’s must be doted and the ‘t’s crossed appropriately, and if there is a mistake, you may be refused entry.

The airlines are queried, and sometimes severe punishments are meted. You may end up in jail without trial and may be lucky to come out of the dungeon, alive. Many able-bodied men and women, well educated and in good health, are languishing in jail all over the world. My heart bleeds when I see my fellow patriots, highly professional in their various fields, fighting to migrate to these so-called countries in search of greener pastures.

Unknown numbers of these brilliant breed of persons have died without even being recorded as a case of death in these so-called advanced societies.

The high level of greed, the craze for quick money syndrome, social insecurity, the non-availability of basic amenities, and the gullibility of an average Nigerian to untrue and distorted facts are some of the reasons that have led to the mass exodus of future builders of this nation to foreign lands. What a waste of human resources!

The ostentatious lifestyle displayed by those who have succeeded in leaving the shores of this country have deceived the unsuspecting victims. It is a pity I fell prey to this, despite my understanding of life and the warning I received from friends and relatives. I was a victim of this greed and get-rich-quick syndrome that has eaten deep into the very fabric of our society.

The Journey to Abuja

It was a Friday, about 6.30 a.m., the sound of an over-used second-hand motorcycle rattled the air. The noise emitted from the broken exhaust was deafening. The audible vibrations from the broken exhaust were strong enough to dismember a clay pot. I was forced to look through a crack on the wall of my father’s mud house. This was just to satisfy my curiosity. Trailing the moving machine was a cloud of dust.

For long, dust had settled on the shrubs that lined the pathway. This was the only road that led to my tiny village. Despite years of oil exploration, my people were still cut off from the outside world. No access roads to the village. We make do with the winding footpath that is as old as the founder of the clan.

Within seconds I adjusted my eyes to accommodate the rising early morning sun. The pink rays emanating from that God-given essence were a beauty to behold that day. The rider of that motorbike must have been under the influence of some intoxicant. This was my personal opinion, which indeed was not far from the truth. Despite the uneven bumpy nature of the road at that period of the year, he was riding at a dangerously high speed. He almost ran over a small child crossing the road. The barking from the dog, which was accompanying the child, and the shout of persons around frightened him and made him to reduce his speed.

Glued to the passenger’s seat like a statue and carrying in his broad hand a large envelope, which was carefully protected like an egg, was my little cousin Ebi. He was looking anxious, worried, and worn out. Obviously, he had not had a good night sleep. I was not surprised to see him in this state of near wreck. Recently, he cultivated a lifestyle that was having its toll on him. Lately, he had gotten many girls, the newest being Erebi the terror. Her nickname was ‘seven days trouble,’ meaning she went on the offensive for seven days with any one who happened to fall out with her. To satisfy his numerous friends, Ebi went from village to village. Sometimes, he visited two women in one night. I believed he must be returning home from one of those exploits. ‘Like father like son,’ they say. This was true of Ebi. He had failed to learn from his late father’s experience.

His father was an engineer and was rich, based on our local standard. He had twelve wives and over forty children. He was one of the first persons to own a television set in the clan. He suddenly died after a squabble with his youngest wife, Ere. This caused a row in the clan and almost led to an inter-village crisis but for the timely intervention of law enforcement agents and well-meaning individuals. That was few years ago.

With speed, Ebi jumped down from the old motorcycle. He looked left, then right, hissed, hesitated a few moment, and then rushed swiftly to the front of the door. I was watching him in amazement. But for the envelope he was carrying, one would have thought he was running away from Erebi the terror; as he often did in times of trouble. Meanwhile, the rider of the machine turned the motorcycle in a circular manner with some acrobatic display, raising a cloud of dust in the air. He sat still with the engine still running, facing the path they had just come from.

Just before he got to the door, the parcel fell off his hand. Bending down like a superman, he opened his claw-like fist, grabbed the envelope and its contents, and made straight for the door. He rammed into the door with all the strength he could muster that morning. The expression on his face as he knocked appeared like one seeking for shelter from an approaching cyclone or one running away from an angry lion.

I allowed him to knock a few times before I answered.

‘Who is that knocking like that at this time of the day?’

He responded with a deep baritone voice full of urgency, ‘It’s me Ebi, your brother. You have an urgent message from your wife through your sister Joy. She instructed that I must deliver the message to you this morning before you go to work,’ he continued without pausing for a break.

‘All right, I am coming,’ I cut in curtly.

Slowly I unlocked the main hook holding the frail door.

‘Come in,’ I instructed. But before I ended my sentence, he sprang into the room like an athlete.

Once inside the room, he repeated the well-rehearsed speech. As he was speaking, he stretched out his hand and handed the bulky parcel to me. With shaky hands and an air full of uncertainty, I took the envelope, opened it, and went through the contents as fast as I could. As a result of the pressure and anxiety, I missed some sentences. I must have read some of the phrases in the letter upside down.

It was an invitation letter from Abuja, from the Nigerian Ministry of External Affairs. I was to attend some urgent matters concerning my proposed journey to America. Though I applied some time ago to be enlisted in the Technical aid corps volunteer services, my mind had since left that line of thinking. My application was submitted when I just had my fellowship and was seeking for a greener pasture all over the globe. That was in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-nine. I had applied, was interviewed, and was selected. A few months later, I was sent to Gambia. I declined the offer. If I must leave this country, it must either be to Europe or America where dollars are picked on the street, I thought. It was therefore surprising getting another letter from them.

Now, I have a good and stable employment with my state government. My thought had long changed. I had since changed my mind from that line of thought. I was now a big fish in the river; I no longer feed on faeces but on humans and large fishes that dwell in the depth of the sea. You must not fail to be in Abuja by 8.00 a.m. on Monday, the note from my sister emphasised.

As I was digesting the content of the letter from the ministry, a white ribbon-like envelope fell to the ground. With a lightning speed, Ebi stretched out his hands and picked the paper. It was a short but powerful note written by my wife. It read ‘ . . . This is a lifetime opportunity that must not be thrown away, my dear. You must accept this offer. This will elevate us from the clutches of poverty and misery . . . ‘

Mulling over the content of the letters, I was overcome by a strong emotion. Unconsciously I began to smile. For a moment I was disoriented. I started sweating profusely. My head began to spin, and my heart was pounding like a machine having an incomplete combustion.

As I raised my eyes, I discovered that my father and Ebi were staring at me intently, waiting anxiously to hear from me the message. I deliberately wanted to keep them in the dark. But for how long? I could not tell. The thickness of the silence that followed could be cut with a knife.

At last, I opened up, ‘It’s just a letter from my wife, Adam-ma, about this abroad of a thing. I have been directed by the Ministry of External Affairs to report at Abuja immediately.’ I kept silent and watched their reactions. Satisfied, I went on, ‘They think they can just send a message like this to me, and I will begin to dance? After all, what is there in going abroad?’ I commented sarcastically.

All these words rushed through my lips like a tap that had lost its control. While relating the message, I was as calm as a newborn baby and pretended as if I was not interested in the trip. But deep within me, I knew I was faking.

As I stood discussing with my father, an intense feeling of fear and premonition of danger swept through me like a wild wind during the harmattan season. I began to shake rather violently. I could not comprehend the reason for this abnormal feeling that had suddenly enveloped me. I became restless and uncomfortable. There was a repulsive impulse sweeping through me as if I was contemplating suicide. I had a peculiar feeling, like one faced with the enemy without a route of escape.

Perhaps I was considering my lean bank account. Or could it be due to the fear of the unknown? Or has it anything to do with the fear of family separation? All these raced through my mind like an unguided missile. As a man who loved challenges, I pulled myself together. After all, no venture, no success, and the greater the danger one undergoes, the greater are the profits if one succeeds.

Meanwhile, my father was watching me intently. Breaking the silence, he asked with a shaky voice, ‘When are you supposed to travel to Abuja?’ I hesitated, but before I could give him an answer, he chipped in hurriedly, ‘In case you do not have enough money to make the trip, I will help you with some,’ he volunteered, forcing a smile.

Though my bank account was almost in the red, I did not want to trouble him any longer. He had been of great assistance to me. As with all government establishments, I was not paid for the first three months I assumed duty. He had been responsible for my feeding and transportation to my station. Three weeks earlier, I had received my salaries, but I expended the money in taking care of the family and paying my siblings’ and children’s school fees. The little cash left was set aside to feed for the month. It could barely take me to Abuja and back. I did not want to overburden the old man. Therefore, before he could finish his offer of support, I cut in sharply that I had got some money with me.

Turning sharply to Ebi, I requested that he should let me have part of my money in his custody, ‘You have been using my bus for public transport for the past three months and I am yet to get a dime out of it. As at the moment I have nothing in hand. Kindly let me have something, no matter how small.’ As I was talking, he was smiling and casting his gaze on the floor. He avoided a direct eye contact with me.

Slapping his palms together, he replied in the affirmative, ‘I am at your service. I will do anything to assist you. I will get back to you as soon as I get home.’ He reassured me. But the expression on his face was grave. It was like the expression on one’s face when one is asked to extract water from a rock. A proposition that is impossible. It was clear to me that he was not telling the truth. Although I accepted his words, my instinct told me he was lying.

‘Where is this money going to come from?’ I reasoned. When Ebi has turned himself to a tin god by keeping over five girlfriends, I will be surprised if he lives up to his promise. Well, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘You must always be positive,’ I consoled myself.

The said vehicle was purchased few months before that date through the help of my friend Matthias. Matthias, fondly called MO, was a kind, gentle, and heavily built handsome man in his late forties. Besides nature’s gift of intelligence, he is a philanthropist who was always willing to help his people at all time. Despite opposition by few disgruntled individuals, he had kept his head above waters by being his brother’s keeper. The vehicle was a twelve-seater kombi bus that was put up for sale by the government. Through his assistance, I was able to purchase the bus at a very good price.

The bus was in a very poor state at the time of purchase. Attempts were made to refurbish, but as a result of inexperienced motor mechanics and non-availability of funds, no day passed without it developing one fault or another. On the few occasions that the vehicle was on the road without any technical trouble, Ebi would send an emissary to inform me that he was arrested and detained by the police. If there was no problem with the police, it would be lack of passengers, arrest of Ebi, or disturbance by touts at the garage.

My father was excited about this news. Leaving us in the living room, he went to the direction of his shrine. On the way, he was half walking and half running. Once inside the hut, he beat the gong several times. This was a form of invitation to his adherents who soon gathered to share the good tidings with him. Emerging from the hut, he suggested that I should go immediately to Okolobiri and obtain permission from my boss. Reluctantly, I accepted his advice.

Later that day, I travelled to my station at Okolobiri. There, I had some useful discussion with my boss. Contrary to my expectations, my chief advised that I should accept the offer and make the trip. He did not see anything wrong with going to try out a new thing in life. He even requested that I should assist him to be enlisted in the programme. Not satisfied with this meeting, I decided to travel to the state headquarters Yenagoa to seek more advice from colleagues and friends. More heads are better than one, I thought.

As it is with all life processes, there were mixed feelings. Majority of the people I spoke with were very happy and wished they were in my shoes. ‘You are a lucky man, you see. To go to America on this ticket is not an easy feat. This shows you are serving a living God. Do you know anybody at Abuja? Or how, how did you do it? This is a big opportunity that must not be thrown away,’ they retorted. ‘No, no you must go.’ Still others were indifferent. But few were sceptical.

‘Do not be in a haste to accept this offer,’ Henry chipped in. ‘You should study carefully the conditions laid down by the authorities before you make the choice. The euphoria of travelling to God’s own country is there, but consider the options critically. Hasty decisions are often fraught with danger, and above all, pray over it and do not resign your appointment. You should discuss the terms with your elder brother who had lived abroad. He may offer some useful advice,’ he concluded.

The pressure on me to accept the offer by my immediate family and friends was unquantifiable. Like a wild fire, the news of my nomination to travel to America had spread to all the nooks and crannies of the ministry and beyond. Friends and foes alike were flocking around to have a second look at the lucky chap.

But I was at a crossroads. Words alone cannot describe my state of mind. A lot of variables had to be taken into consideration before a reasonable decision could be made. I did a lot of computation and situation analysis taking into cognisance my social status and the joy my movement may infuse into the family. Finally, I bowed to the pressure and decided to travel to Abuja the next day by night bus. Afraid that Ebi might not meet his earlier promise, I rushed straight to the bank and emptied my account, visited some friends, and travelled back to my station.

As I alighted from the taxi, I met an old friend, who on seeing me had read that there was something wrong. I tried to be my old self, pretending to be pleasantly disposed. But the harder I tried, the more I gave up myself. He accosted me and showered me with so many questions. At first they were general questions, but later he became more specific. Initially I tried to dodge his questions, but he persisted.

‘Ben, what’s the matter with you?’ without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘You are looking so worried and tired. Have you heard from your wife recently?’ I guessed he might have heard the news about my selection to travel to Belize, but he was deliberately keeping it to himself. He was dissecting me to see if I would voluntarily give him the information he was seeking. I held my ground. I was tired of discussing the issue. I felt he might let me go without mentioning the voyage. He persisted. At last he hit the nail on the head.

‘Before I forget, congratulations!’ he said. ‘Ben! I heard about your success in the last selection of candidates to travel to America,’ he said, lowering his voice.

Like Jean Jacques Rosseau once said, ‘When a man visits you the first day, he is a guest, the second day, a burden; the third, a pest.’ This talk had become to me a huge parasite about to devour his host. I just said nothing but was shaking my head.

Physiologically, I was drained when he mentioned this. But there was no running away. Like a woman caught in the act of adultery I spread my cold, clammy, shaky hands towards him. He held my hands like the claw of a parrot, shaking them vigorously for over five minutes. I nearly shouted, but I endured the painful grips.

Finally, he released his hold. His strong and broad muscular hand must have crushed my bones, for I began to experience excruciating pains.

Just as I was recovering from the pains, I noticed a vehicle pull up beside us. On closer observation I saw one of my colleagues, a fellow surgeon. He was smiling broadly and looking very excited. ‘Hello, Ben,’ he roared, ‘how is life treating you?’ Without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘I have heard all about your success in the last selection exercise. Congratulation! Congratulation!’

He was watching me closely with the corner of his eyes. He took in a deep breath, stared into space, hesitated, and then continued, ‘I am happy you were among those chosen to be our ambassadors in a foreign land.’ He stopped, tossed his keys, caught them midair, and continued, ‘We will miss you. But to say the fact, I think you are better off here than travelling to America for any reason.’ Still watching me intently, he smiled, shook his head, and held my hands, with a low voice, he said, ‘I know you do not like what I’m telling you now, but time will prove me right.’ He paused to blow his nose and continued, ‘You are young, hardworking, and a specialist surgeon.’ He continued with a solemn voice, ‘The sky is your limit here in this country.’

He let go my hand, headed straight for his car without looking back. Just as the car was about pulling away, he raised his head and beckoned at me to come closer. With a low and melodious voice full of emotion and passion, he whispered into my ears, ‘But you can give it a trial.’ He kept silent and continued, ‘You may go, assess the place, and then take a decision. Do not forget you have a family here,’ he concluded rather harshly. He finally requested that I should see him in his clinic in Port-Harcourt to collect some money, in case I did not have sufficient money.

Mr Uche was an astute surgeon of international repute. He read in one of the Eastern European countries where he obtained his first and second degrees in surgery. He had been a dependable administrator and had a flourishing private medical practice in one of the oil cities in the Niger Delta region. He was talking to me based on his personal experience having spent the best part of his life abroad.

This meeting with him left me really perplexed. It had raised some vital issues. First, I should think carefully before accepting the offer to go to Belize. The benefits I stand to loose should I travel to America, then the issue of leaving my very young family. Finally, he offered to give me some money in case I was hard up.

I scrolled through these options many times as he drove away. Like the proverbial deaf housefly that follows the corpse to the grave yard, I rejected other brilliant ideas and argument and closed my brain to objective reasoning. The only thing that kept recurring in my mind was his offer of money to assist me. My instinct of danger was all deadened.

‘It’s a lifetime challenge,’ I shouted aloud as he drove away. After all, many failed to achieve greatness by refusing to take risks. ‘Life itself is full of risks . . . Roentgen who discovered X-ray took a great risk by experimenting on vacuum rays.’

No good thing comes easily. All these side comments rather uncomplimenting and conflicting had been fashioned by the devil to deprive me of my God-given opportunity. ‘Oh yes, my meeting with him was a huge blessing in disguise. You see, God had blessed this journey. Mr Uche offer of some money was a good omen,’ I consoled myself.

Later that day, I went back to Kosuama village. My head was teeming with a lot of ideas. These thoughts were at opposite ends. Some were mere feelings of fantasy, while others were impressions too naïve to be conceived.

‘Always be positive,’ I reassured myself. As a result, I closed my mind to every contrary argument or opinion, no matter how reasonable they might be.

I was overwhelmed by the thought of travelling not only to abroad, but also to America. If not for anything, at least it would give me the opportunity of squaring up with others, especially doctors who had travelled abroad before me without feeling inferior any more. At last, I would have been exposed to such experiences that other medical doctors had had abroad. I was overshadowed by this singular realisation, and I started imagining myself in a very big hospital complex working as a surgeon, doing research, and publishing in the world’s reputable journals.

The thought of being paid my salaries and receiving other local allowances in hard currency was too compelling to be discarded easily with a wave of the hand.

As a result, number of fantastic projects to be undertaken took over the next stage. First on the list was to put up a modern magnificent building at home for my mother. She had been suffering over the years from lack of accommodation since a cyclone blew off their roof. She had moved from one relation’s house to another, in search of shelter. Although I appeared calm and might have appeared rather insensitive to her pains and cries, each time she laid these complaints, my heart was bleeding.

Frequently, friends and some so-called well-wishers would come and exaggerate these stories, which I often felt was a calculated attempt to despise, downgrade, and belittle me, my brother, and my other siblings. They could not comprehend how a mother of a doctor and a lawyer would live in such a deplorable and appalling condition. Once in Lagos, during the village union’s get together, a lady openly asked me to sit down. ‘You should not say anything about development while others are talking. Take a look at where your parents are staying, just take a look. You came here to live an ostentatious life while the mother that bore you in her womb for nine months is living in penury. Sit down there quietly and do not contribute anything as long as the session lasts.’

Though I charged back at her, reminding her of the ugly history of her family, yet she had made a vital point, a point too paramount to be ignored. This open confrontation was the tonic I needed to plan setting up a house in the village.

Though the plan was on, but my people did not believe that the economic reality then was responsible for my non-performance. Well, with God on my side, I was determined to solve these problems.

Second on my priorities list was the thought of getting three brand-new vehicles. One of these cars would be given as a birthday gift to my wife. The second would be for my younger brother whose vehicle was old. Then the third, of course, would be for me. It must be a four-wheel drive. Finally, I would take the whole of my family to study in America. My children must go to the best schools in America. These and others were some of my hopes and aspirations.

I woke up very early on Sunday morning, rushed to the stream and had my bath. Breakfast was ready before I got home. It was my favourite meal. I tried to devour it but found I had lost appetite. However, I gathered myself together and set out to Port-Harcourt early. I hoped to meet my friend in the clinic to collect the little token he had promised to give me. I was full of hope and was in high spirits.

*     *     *

Then the long-awaited trip began. It was a smooth journey from Kosuama to Igbogene junction. This is a T-junction that connects my village to the outside world. Thereafter, the tide changed. Things began to happen. As I crossed the road with my luggage, a fairly new Peugeot 504 saloon car pulled up.

There were two occupants. A fierce looking and tall policeman, armed to the teeth. The other man was very muscular and well built. He might once have been a wrestler. It was very obvious they were looking for passenger. Quickly I remembered my days as a university undergraduate. Each time my elder brother sent us on an errand with his vehicle, we would go to the park and pick some passengers at giveaway fares. I stopped picking people along the road when one of the passengers we picked stole three of my favourite Christian cassettes.

Swiftly, I took a glanced at the vehicle, assessed the occupants, and the driver. Having satisfied my curiosity, I walked smartly towards it, opened the back door, and slid into the backseat. Taking in a deep breath, I allowed my weight to settle on the seat snugly. As I was adjusting my tired limbs to the newfound comfort, the driver engaged the gear, accelerated, and off we zoomed to Port-Harcourt.

The screeching of the tyres on the side of the road was frightening. Looking behind, a cloud of trailed behind. Some pedestrians dived into the nearby forest for safety. Everybody in the vehicle, except me, burst into a useless sadistic laughter.

‘Look at these villagers, what’s making them run into the bush?’ the policeman asked. This was followed by some condemning comments. I found nothing amusing or humorous in what they were saying, and being a total stranger, I deliberately kept mute and refused to be lured into the conversation.

The vehicle was spacious and comfortable. The cold breeze oozing from the air conditioner was quite soothing. The tinted glasses and decoration inside were attractive and blended well. It was clear the car was owned by a well-to-do man.

As I settled down to enjoy the cold breeze, the fear of the unknown took over me. My heart was hammering under my ribs, and my breathing came in jerks. My mind raced through a number of possibilities. By this time I had made up my mind to take the risk. As a result, I closed my mind to any contrary view or idea, no matter how plausible. Therefore, I concentrated only on being positive.

‘All things work for a man’s good,’ I reassured myself . . . The manner this vehicle had appeared speaks for itself. It goes to confirm that all was well.

I started murmuring a familiar tone. ‘What God has done for me . . . I cannot tell it all . . . ‘

As a routine, each time I boarded any form of vehicle, I usually assessed the driver in my own way. His reflexes, his ability to manoeuvre the vehicle especially at bends, and his mastering of road signs are usually evaluated. This would determine if I would sleep or remain awake, and occasionally, I would caution the driver.

Professionally, the driver was excellent. He was a master with the steering. His driving skill was second to none. He had great manoeuvring ability, very experienced and skillful. All these combined made me feel secured. I must have dozed off briefly. However, my intuition for danger brought me instantly awake. I raised my head above, listened, and cleared my throat. The slight rhythmic creaking of the tyres on the road, coupled with the soft music coming from the car stereo filled the air. These were reassuring. ‘But what was it that made me feel the way I had felt some few moments ago?’ I asked myself.

I was still secretly saying my prayers when suddenly the sound of the vehicle engine changed. This was followed by the smell of carbon. The peppery sensation of the fumes filled the air. Briskly there was a jerky motion. This lasted a few seconds and stopped. The convulsive motion of the vehicle forced the driver to slow down. Thereafter, the normal smooth running of the engine continued. The driver engaged the gear and the vehicle gained momentum, and we sped off.

I heaved a sigh of relief, adjusted my seat belt, and began to listen to those sweet melodious tones from the car stereo.

The apparent smooth running of the engine lasted about ten minutes. Suddenly the ugly sound returned, the teargas-like peppery sensation increased, and the erratic motion became more pronounced. This irregular motion increased until it came to a point where it could no longer be ignored. At this point, my eyes began to tear.

With an unstable husky tone, I rapped, ‘What’s the trouble with your car?’ I pretended to be unruffled and calm, but my hoarse voice gave me away. My autonomic nervous system must have been overactivated. I began to sweat profusely. For the first time in over ten years, I began to experience severe palpitation.

Like a snail surrounded by smouldering burning fire, the driver filled his lungs with air, hesitated and hissed. He was then looking pale, confused, un-coordinated, and murmuring some words in his mother tongue.

‘Oh my god!’ he exclaimed. ‘These motor mechanics have cheated me.’

He disengaged the gear, pulled up by the side of the road, and switched off the ignition. My mind was racing through a number of devil’s alternatives. Should this car develop any fault, I will be in a fix. My purse was getting lean, and if I failed to get to Port-Harcourt before sunset, the chances are that I might not meet my friend at his clinic, and tracing him in a city that I do not know its geography will be like ‘chasing over one’s shadow.’ You can never hold on to your shadow.

Hissing again he continued, ‘These mechanics are thieves, useless, inefficient, and very unreliable. They are all illiterates and badly trained. They contradict themselves. One will tell you something and the other will say the exact opposite. That fat fool whose head resembles a congenitally malformed coconut told me there was nothing wrong with the injectors. I have paid him over N2000 and now the dilemma has returned.’

There was a brief moment of confusion and uncertainty in the car. My heart was hammering away, and my breathing came in epileptic motions. Again, he continued, ‘It will not be sensible to waste more money on this vehicle, considering the fact that these auto-mechanics in this state are half-baked.’

Hissing and shaking his head, he continued, ‘I will rather manage it to Port-Harcourt, meet an experienced motor engineer who will replace the injector if need be.’ As the reality of the day downed on him, he shouted hysterically opening his palm, ‘What will I tell my master again? He will think I am deceiving him.’ As he was talking, he pulled the nub controlling the bonnet, opened the door, and came out of the vehicle.

Opening the bonnet, he heaved a sigh, fiddled with some component of the engine, pulling, tightening, and loosening. He finally pulled out a pipe, passed it into the injector, and started blowing it like a soldier in a parade ground blowing a trumpet to impress his boss. Having satisfied himself, he entered the car, switched on the ignition, and pressed the accelerator paddle several times.

Meanwhile, I was standing beside the policeman, watching the whole procedure. As a defensive and precautionary measure, I had my luggage beside me. I had thought the driver and the other occupants of the car might be playing some games on me. Perhaps, they intended to lure me and make away with my luggage. There was nothing much inside the bag, just a few clothes, photocopies of my documents, and toothbrushes and toothpaste. Insignificant as these things may seem, I had heard a lot about these tricksters. I do not want to be a victim.

The engine started again, promptly and smoothly, as soon as the electrical circuit was completed. He pumped some gas into the carburettor, revved the engine several times, and listened. We were all satisfied with its performance. The jerky motions and those ugly metallic vibrations had stopped. Simultaneously, we all entered the car. Again, the driver engaged the gear, pressed some gas into the gas chamber, the vehicle gained momentum and we sped off.

‘So these mechanics wanted to cheat me, eeh,’ he roared, like a lion in search of a prey. ‘They took my money and did nothing,’ he recounted. ‘You see, I can do it better than the majority of them,’