me kai ke chewa
on Fantastic Voyage (Nigeria), 20/Sep/2010 12:14, 34 days ago
I’m a bit of a fan of Walter Pater, and he says (among other things, most of which are flagrant invention to suit his splendid theories) that ‘it could even said that it is our failure to form habits’.For this reason, I not infrequently vary daily routines– like every so often putting my right leg into pants and trousers first, or writing with my left hand, or looking at the world with one eye closed at a time.So this mania of mine for variation and novelty comes pretty good in this country, and particularly on its roads, which are, of course, primarily concerned with providing me an endless smorgasboard consisting of eye-watering, throat-searing volumes of exhaust fumes; competitive swerving and accelerating; aggressive and incessant blaring of horns; a profusion of the random and unexpected, like a herd of cows wandering– slowly, slowly – across a main road while yourokkadadriver sizes them up and elects a gap that’s usually just wide enough to squeeze between without raking your legs on the alarming disproportionate horns.All of this is very fine and entertaining.Added to which, every so often, someone will shout out a greeting to the white man, primarily motivated (I assume) by the triple proof hilarity of seeing 1) abaturiin Nigeria (there are lots, but it’s always exciting); 2) seeing abaturion a motorbike (we’re sophisticated types, and generally prefer to be up in the air inside vehicles); 3) seeing anyone at all wearing a helmet.It’s not quite Tubbs, thrilled by the workman’s helmet (‘is it a crown you wear?’), but it’s not far off.And greetings here are of paramount importance, so I always jerk my head around frantically, trying to see who said what and work out an appropriate gesture, grin, or muffled shout from beneath my faceguard.I must look like Gareth at the end of that Office episode when he’s getting driven off in a sidecar with an expression of sheer, mute panic.But I don’t feel that way.Anyway, the roads are good: they’re exciting.But occasionally– if you do not come too close, if you do not come too close – fragments of delicious beauty can be seen.In the early days of being here, I couldn’t believe I’d ever lift my helmet from my head as my bike sped round a corner with the insouciant grace of another volunteer.I probably don’t look as elegant doing it, but I feel pretty good: like when you’re running with a football at your feet.You look like a spotty teenager going nowhere, but you feel like Steve McManaman.I also love watching a whole line ofokkadasracing around a roundabout, leaning in and straightening up together.It’s even better when you’re part of that group – then it’s like being Mary Malone among themulefa.Perhaps best of all (and maybe least dangerous to be) are the policemen, who stand at junctions at busy times of the day wearing yellow or orange jackets and directing the traffic.I say they’re directing the traffic because I can’t think why else they’d be there, but I’d honestly struggle to understand any directions they’re trying to give.It’s a graceful, weaving, balletic display: a grand solo performance in the round, with smoke drifting skywards and the sun beating down.Arms waving, sometimes on one leg, shoulders shuffling left and then right, spinning round, apparently (though this is, hopefully, an illusion) oblivious to everything around them.They’re wonderful to watch, and I can’t imagine a traffic warden, plodding glumly on their way, ever making eye contact with that level of audacious performative glory.