From the Eleme circumference to Osisioma, north of Aba, one of the huge market towns of eastern Nigeria is supposed to be 40 minutes, but we spent an hour and ten minutes getting there. One cant really tell at what speed the van travelled, because the speedometer, like other of its systems was dead. Osisioma and other parts of Aba were not different from the chaotic Eleme circle where Chika and his Agbero gangs rule. At Osisioma, children, adults and older persons were seen hawking cola nuts, fried plantain chips wrapped in transparent polythene bags, fresh mangos fruits and water in plastic bottles and bags, to eke a miserable living in a depressed oil and gas economy.
From the Eleme circumference to Osisioma, north of Aba, one of the huge market towns of eastern Nigeria is supposed to be 40 minutes, but we spent an hour and ten minutes getting there. One cant really tell at what speed the van travelled, because the speedometer, like other of its systems was dead. Osisioma and other parts of Aba were not different from the chaotic Eleme circle where Chika and his Agbero gangs rule. At Osisioma, children, adults and older persons were seen hawking cola nuts, fried plantain chips wrapped in transparent polythene bags, fresh mangos fruits and water in plastic bottles and bags, to eke a miserable living in a depressed oil and gas economy.
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After standing for a while at the Osisioma junction, I boarded a somewhat better Mishubushi vehicle, also reconstructed into a 18-seater. At the front and back of the white van were the shouting inscriptions, “Good morning Jesus”. The fare per head to Umuahia, the capital of Abia state was N400; I paid for two seats in front near the drivers’ seat. The weather was getting audible hot, and we had spent over an hour waiting for the vehicle to fill up. Its driver, Uche, is a short, courageous man and spoke good English with an palpably Igbo accent, and didn’t have a conductor like the previous one. There were many more women than men in the vehicle. We jerked out, and headed north. Stickers of Chelsea football club dotted everywhere inside the van, indicating that he must be a militant Chelsea fan. There was no radio, speedometer or tachometer though the vehicle was fairly new. We had barely spent 20 minutes running when Uche, the driver veered off into a nearby fuel station.
“Oh! What kind of madness is this? Can’t you tell us that you want to buy fuel?” a dark lady in her late 20s said to the driver.
“Are you the only person in the van? If you talk too much I will refund you N400. Is that money” The driver jumped out of his seat, and handed over N1, 775 to the station attendant. “Give me 15 liters fuel” he said.
In some parts of Aba, fuel is sold at N105 per liter and above against the current N97 price. At the filling station, two hefty young men in dark brown uniform wielding Pump Action rifles were seen. They were members of the Abia Vigilante Services (AVS) popularly called the Bakassi Boys, who were guarding the station. We bought fuel and jerked out again, heading north-west, passing through towns like Obiakabia, Ubakala, and others, with tall palm trees, huge pictures of the Abia State Governor, (Chief Theodore Orji) advertising his achievements with the title of, “Ochendo”on bill boards. (Ochendo literally meaning in Igbo, one who brings life) Around the Ohiya area in the north-east we ran into contigent fierce-looking soldiers in a motorcade of armoured vehicles driving against traffic and heading towards Aba, the market town. We moved slowly and steadily, several passengers fell asleep, those awake complained of the vehicle’s snail pace.
“Is this a car? This is not a car, but a dead wood” a female passenger seating directly behind the driver’s seat said mockingly.
“This is my personal car”, the driver striking his chest boastfully said. “Even in your 6th generation, you or your parent no go get this car” he continued furiously.
“In fact, when human beings are taking fools like una no suppose talk” he added when shaking with rage.
As we moved towards our destination in Umuahia, a tall, busty, good-looking young lady waved her hand at Uche, the driver.
“Uche, Uche, park the car and come I wan see you o o o” The lady shouted and smiled satisfactorily at Uche.
“Okay, I dey come” Uche “That is my woman” he said in tow tones only to the hearing of his passengers.
“Idiot like you” referring to the female passenger who attacked him. “Don’t you see the kind of fine girls I pull out with. Do you know how many beautiful girls I buy rice for this Easter?” He claimed braggingly.
Some passengers in Uche’s car laughed discordantly at the driver’s claim. The car pulled to a stop at its destination and the journey to the house of Iwo in Abiriba began.
I arrived at the Ohafia motor park situated on the north of Umuahia around noon when the raging sun of the tropics runs wild like a pandemic. The park is a pint-sized area with a collection of ramshackle retrofitted 18-seatre with uniform eye-catching lettering, “Ohafia Line”. I was directed by two kingpins of the vehicle company to enter one stationary, crumbling vehicle in their fleet, which had in it an old woman and her grandchild and two young men from the company who posed as passengers. Inside the vehicle, there was some leather sheet gummed to cover foams that spread horizontally on smoothened wood stretch bolstered by iron bars to provide, soft seats for passengers in each row. Travelling in such vehicle, over huge pot holes on the roads was terrible, it trembled like one afflicted with a severe convulsion attack, the person dances unwittingly to either side of the bus, while one of the piercing irons seize the person’s cloth and rip them. This, I want to avoid.
I stepped out of the scene hurriedly, behind the park was a clean second-hand red Pasat car.
“Ohafia, Ohafia, Ohafia”, a dark-skinned young man with a vertical and stately posture called continuously, to draw passengers’ attention.
“Yes, I dey go Ohafia” I asserted in Pidgin English as I walked hastily towards him.
“Sir come and join us we want to leave now” He beckoned, and said in English mixed with his deep Igbo accent, while hurling a curious look at me.
“I am going to Abiriba in Ohafia” I replied, throwing a sardonic smile at him.
“Where in Abiriba are you going?” The driver who gave his name as Ifeanyi, queried sympathetically.
“Thank you, my brother, I am going to Uwaka square in Umueso” I explained further.
“See how God works. That is my place. I know where you are going. Is it not Chief Iwo burial? Just pay for the remaining three seats I will take you to any where there”. Ifeanyi retorted breathlessly with an air of confidence and excitement.
I paid the agreed fare of N1, 500 for the three seats. An excited Ifeanyi said,” This is the kind of passenger any driver would pray to have”. I laughed clamorously. I sat with the driver in front, leaving one extra seat to be enjoyed by the other two passengers. The journey from Umuahia to Abiriba takes approximately an hour or less. I had travelled to the Ohafia council headquarter some 5 years ago, but never visited Abiriba. Ifeanyi was such an intelligent, humble and lively fellow to be with, he knew his way around everywhere. The car took off without the usual rituals of prayers and all that. All the occupants were knowledgeable young men, going to the Ohafia area. I was the only one going to Abirirba. Abiriba is further ahead after Ohafia, though administratively located in the Ohafia Local Government Area.
We headed northeast on the road, racing through Beng, Amankpo, Uzuokoli, Lohun, Akoli-Imenyion and other beautiful places. We drove through Amabo, Umu-Enyere communities on the east where lots of creeping green plants and trees threaten to cover the road, and form natural barricades. I shot my curious eyes through the car’s window at the scenic view. The area must be a haven for rodents and other rare species of wild mammals. Commercial hunters must have some lucrative career there. As we advanced steadily north-east towards Igbere, Ifeanyi announced loudly and proudly,” Abiriba, the small London is closer”
“Thank you, Ifeanyi, the people’s pilot” I responded and he laughed noisily.
A few minutes later and we were around the Abiriba zone. Abiriba perches on sprawling green hills that superintend the striking and seductive green valleys. The community seats on money and wealth. Abiriba flaunts some of the most posh villas, mansions, fortresses and castles I have seen in the United State of America (USA), Europe, Abuja and other rich places around the world. The fantastic houses stroll through the Abiriba hills and valleys. The small London is like an “Island” where only wealthy people dwell. Ifeanyi chauffeured the car around and later took me to the only functional guesthouse in the community where I spent a night without electricity.
Darkness descended from the skyline over Abiriba while I was at Uwaka Square in Umueso, home of the departed Iwo. The burial eve was solemn and cold. A gentle night breeze hovered from the hilly scenery to pay us a visit. Streams of visitors milled around the house of the deceased. Nobody seemed to be mourning; rather those who knew him were merely recounting his good deeds and achievements. I greeted his handsome and charming children I had met some 13 years ago when I was staying in a small apartment on the southern axis of Port Harcourt. Some are now either fathers, mothers, whereas, others are still single searching for true love. We were neighbours. Our houses were separated by a tiny foot path which ended at our common backyard. It wasn’t an evening of mourning, rather an evening of delight and entertainment. There were enough food and drinks. People drank excessively and over fed themselves and looked helpless and wooden headed. Towards the wee hours of the night, a furious stormy rain erupted and disrupted the event. The rain lasted for an hour and I left to catch some sleep, which had been elusive from me for about four days before.
The following Easter Monday was the final rites for the deceased. I returned to the late Iwo’s house midday. Chief Iwo was a nice, honest hard working and the most detribalized man I have ever met. He never had the opportunity of receiving formal education. He was a tailor by trade, and a successful one, indeed. He had lived in Port Harcourt since 1955, and was a pioneer member of the “Old Port Harcourt Boys” club. He was born in 1938. The death and subsequent burial of Chief Iwo Nsiorie underlines the vainness of our existence. After the stressful struggles and adventures, life comes to an end. The journey of life is like travelling by road from Eleme junction to Osisioma, to Umuahia and Abiriba, and at the end, a down- heartened denouement comes and we are gone forever. Only our good works continue to speak volumes of us. It was voyage into the house of Iwo.
Concluded
Naagbanton, is based in Port Harcourt, Rivers State Capital, Nigeria
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