Driving Force
December 14th, 2007It is sometimes difficult to wax lyrical about cars- the merits or otherwise of their design and engineering, The overwhelming power sports cars or other seemingly esoteric aspects of their makeup when the vast majority of us may never own cars. The few who can, drive what in most other countries would have been ordered off the roads for aesthetic or environmental reasons. According to one of those ubiqutious polls, Nigeria is the 26th poorest country in the world. Or to put a positive spin on it, starting from the back of the list, we are the 26th least desirable country in the world to live in. It is enough to make you pause and wonder, if we are this way and are 26th, it mush surely be hell for those that have to live in the country that’s last. We are a rich country full of poor people. It is a testament to the resilience and strength of character of the majority of Nigerians that we have not convulsed into total chaos. It is this character and resilience that comes to the fore in acquiring and maintaining our cars. How much of the following is strange to the average Lagos motorist?
You wake up with a start, somewhere in the deeper recess of Kosofe Local Government Area, in the same darkness you slept in. Feeling around for the flashlight to check the time, its 4.30 am….…you are going to be late. Quickly, you dash outside with a bucket to fetch water for a bath. Staggering from the weight of the bucket of water, you still try to shoo away your landlord’s goats that habitually sleep on the bonnet of your car for its warmt. Your persistent complaints to the wicked landlord, his nagging wife or their never-do –well children have so far fallen on deaf ears. The day of your revenge will surely come and will no doubt involve goatmeat peppersoup. These happy thoughts are thrust aside as you prepare for work.
Standing at the entrance to your “mini-flat”-a room with its own bath and kitchette- you regard the car. This is your car, only slightly younger than yourself but still going “strong”. Once one gets familiar with its peculiarities it’s simple enough to drive. With the latest overhaul of the battery, the car will only start unaided three times a day. So it’s once in the morning to work, once for the journey home and the third held strategically in reserve. As a result of a bug in the carburetor, the car does not idle, an aliment your mechanic colorfully refers to as “brake and quench”. The cure involving the eye watering expense is remote, you have mastered the art of simultaneously braking, accelerating and clutching to keep the car from stalling and embarrassing you in traffic. A leaking sunroof complimented by an diabolic fuel gauge highlights some of its more endearing peculiarities. The air-conditioner works though.
Chanting your usual incantations:
You will not disgrace me today (three times)
You will not stop inexplicably on any of our many bridges rendering me victim of the traffic authority’s roving tow vehicles (once)
You will not disgrace me.
These incantations are important. A car this old is an idol that must be worshipped with piety and regular offerings.
Those goats had better watch out.
To do otherwise is to court misfortune. With those thoughts you enter the car and ease out onto the street. As you drive slowly toward the street gate erected by the street resident’s association to forestall invasion by men of the underworld, you holler out to the neighborhood vigilante sleeping in an abandoned kombi bus by the side of the road to open the gate. A dangerous looking man armed as if about to reenact the some pre-colonial tribal scirmish, eventually does so but not before reminding you to get the current estate car sticker. Mumbling a rude retort you speed off.
Curtsey of the uncooperative carburetor you have to rev the engine incessantly to get rid of its early morning grogginess. This action of revving the engine, dipping the clutch to select a suitable gear and braking to reduce speed and avoid other cars and commercial motorcycle riders produces a kangaroo-like lurching. As you struggle to bring the car under control, Mr. Solomon a notorious “free rider” who had been lying in wait for you suddenly jumps out from his hiding place onto the street and beckons you to give him another ride to work.
Startled, you slam on the brakes but as you do, the car stalls. Assuming you had indeed stopped for him Mr. Solo hops in. Smiling furiously, he bids you good morning. Cursing silently at the waste of your battery’s strategic reserve, you hide your irritation by acknowledging his greeting and restart the car. The daily commute to work is a 30-kilometer route of mostly Expressway. This should ordinarily take no more than thirty minutes though this is not accounting for appalling driving. Bad lane discipline and indiscriminate stopping and waiting brings travel time up to about an hour and a half. Time Mr. Solo employs talking ceaselessly. Peddling one ignorant idea after another. From experience you have learnt to tune him out and turn on the radio on which you can listen to that great work of fiction also know as the daily traffic report. An amusing programme, which features a radio personality conjuring, upturned trailers and other traffic snarl ups solely from his imagination to the accompanying sound of a helicopter.
As you make your way up the Third Mainland Bridge, a 10-kilometer bridge designed for three-lane traffic but miraculously expanding to allow for five lanes of traffic every week day morning. The traffic inches along towards Lagos with occasional mad lunges forward as soon as cracks in the slow stream are made. There is a break in traffic and in order to soothe your frayed nerves you switch on the air conditioner you stubbornly installed with last January’s “up-front” allowance. Disregarding the advise of your “rewire”.
Basking in the cool air, nothing bothers you, neither the hundreds of cars stretching out as far as the eye can see nor the semiliterate and probably seditious comments by Mr. Solo on the economy and its managers. You have your air-conditioner.
Without warning there is a loud bang. KABWOOA!!! Turning wildly in your seat, you look across the bridge for source of the explosion. Out of the corner of your eye you see smoke billowing out of the bonnet’s shut lines of your car. FIRE! Quickly you jump out of the car and with the fire extinguisher the MOT inspectors froisted on you, you prepare to attack the flames. Upon lifting the bonnet, more smoke but no flames. Upon closer inspection you realize there’s no electrical fire but it’s the second hand air-conditioner hoses that had exploded ducting copious quantities CFC gases into the early morning. Other motorists, taking no chances give you a wide berth.
As you stand there grinning sheepishly, your ears ringing with the warning of Taiye, your rewire, waves of embarrassment wash over you as passing motorists look quizzically in your direction as still others snigger. Mr. Solo having bolted out of the car, stands arms akimbo about 100 meters away waiting for the “flames” to subside. You invite the “traitor” over with a wave to share in your embarrassment. With a look and body language trying to convey calm, you reenter the car. Luckily, you had left it running. As part of his punishment for desertion you let Mr. Solo chase the car for a few meters. Still smarting from the experience you snap at Mr. Solo who is still trying to enjoy the last of the cool air in the car to wind his window down. Despite his apologies and prostrations you resolve never to give him another ride.
With all this drama you will be late for work. At least you are better than some. You are a car owner and aside from the annoying trickle of water from the leaky sunroof you don’t get wet when it rains. The car is still going strong. Your prayer now is to reach the office without further incident and that no one you know saw you attacking your car with an extinguisher in the middle of the bridge. Maybe its punishment for your “idol” worship, maybe things will get better and time will help you forget this. You are unshakeable in the knowledge that “that which does not kill makes us stronger”.