This afternoon I had few errands to run at the neighourhood centre in Zone 3. I went to buy a black foldable table but saw other colours like green, red, orange, white and blue.
Black was very scarce but with the help of my Igbo brothers who can go any length to satisfy a customer, I finally got the black table. I was on my way to deliver the table to the owner when I got stuck in traffic around Apo.
I saw a guy hawking an art piece of a semi nude but beautifully sculpted lady in the traffic. For unknown reasons, the art piece triggered many delicious memories of the Mills and Booms days. I begged the guy to allow me take a snapshot of the artwork and he asked me to pay 200 for it. I paid.
I drove a little further and picked up my phone to admire the art piece again and then I got carried away. The next thing I saw was someone opening the passenger door of the car and slidding in like a thief in broad daylight.
He was an FRSC officer. He flashed his ID card and instructed me to keep driving. He gave me that look of “whatever you say or do will be used against you in the court of law” so I obeyed. He asked me to drive to their station because I have offended and injured the law by using my phone while stuck in traffic.
My head started doing plenty calculations on what to say or do to get myself out of this People’s wahala. I hate anything station, FRSC or police matter. When I applied to FRSC in 2018, I wasn’t shortlisted because I didn’t meet the height and weight criteria and have disliked them since then.
Against his instruction to keep driving, I maneuvered out of the traffic and parked by the side of the road. I started speaking big, big english that will defend my innocence and unlawful arrest. I tried to even fake a call to my friend but I had insufficient balance.
When he saw that I am a stubborn and unwilling scapegoat, the officer guy called his team to send their towing vehicle to tow the car to the station. It was then I realised that my english wasn’t going to appease officer Mattwal and his bulldozer team.
As the drama queen that I am, I burst into uncontrollable tears without a warning. I suddenly switched from 100% owambe mood to Canada’s coldest weather figure. He asked me why I was crying…I narrated the story of my great grandmother’s sister’s cousin goat that died in 1806.
The officer became confused with my tears, dropped from the car and asked me to carry my wahala and go before I call him a rapist. He was swearing for me in pidgin as I drove off happily to my destination.
Lesson learnt. I will never press phone or snap a nude daughter of Jezebel in traffic again.