SALARY WEEK AT OSHODI

 It's salary week!

This reminds me of a story.

Back when I was a warehouse officer somewhere on Oshodi Apapa Expressway, I had a fearfully beautiful experience.

Our salaries were not paid into our bank accounts. They were delivered to us in envelopes carried in a wheel barrow that was pushed around the warehouse.

Your name would be called out and your envelope would be handed to you.

So, on one of those days, we worked late into the evening.

I left the warehouse at about 9pm with my salary safely secured in my sling bag. Boarding a bus from Aswani to Oshodi was usually treacherous at this time of the night, still I boarded.

Then came the heavy traffic at Toyota Bus Stop which had me arriving Oshodi at past 11pm.

Now, this is not the Oshodi of today o,this was the pre-Fashola Oshodi, one of the most dangerous places on planet earth.

As I alighted from the bus under the bridge, hoping to find one last Molue enroute Abule-Egba, I was met with an empty bus stop, dark and fearsome.

Instinctively, I patted for my 20k salary in my sling bag, it was still there... but at this point I wasn't sure whether it would get home with me, because in the distance I saw glowing lights near the lips of male silhouettes.

Every once in a while the glow would throw off sparks, followed by plumes of smoke that filled the air with the unmistakable smell of Marijuana.

As I squinted into the partial darkness, I made a mental count of about 4 boys sitting around a woman selling shekpe.

I noticed the guys were puffing and staring in my direction. It was only a matter of minutes before I'd be robbed, I thought to myself.

I had only one option left- ATTACK!

Abi, don't they say the best form of defence is attack? I had to defend myself and my 20k salary.

So, I walked slowly and confidently toward them. Taking a deep breath, I summoned my gruffiest voice

"Eyin boys, kilo n'sele"?

Before they could respond, I gently snatched a half smoked Igbo from one of them and took a deep drag.

I took a second drag and from the corner of my eye I could see the look of surprise, admiration and camaraderie in their eyes.

I ordered the woman selling shekpe to give us two bottles of pelebe. I took a swig from one of the bottles, scrunched up my face in response to the bitter, burning taste to further offer them my non-judgemental acquaintance.

Still with my gruffy voice, I started a conversation with them on how I had closed late and now there were no buses for me to get home, except for some occasional Okada bikes zooming past.

Immediately, they swung into action inspired by brotherly love and started consoling me.

Not too long afterward, an Okada appeared from the distance. The guys flagged him down with wild gestures and loud threats.

They instructed him to carry "Baba"- that's me.

I paid for the shekpe, took another drag from their Igbo and mounted the bike straight to Iyana Ipaja where I would get another to my house.

As the bike flew, I felt the high of the weed in my head. It was light and dreamy. The wind felt cool on my face and I could still hear the echo of the guys friendly shouts "Baba oooooo"!

Before any of you begin to ask me questions about Igbo smoking, this is the end of the story.