After much ado about the disrespect for the ban on inter-state travel and news about security personnel and how they disrespect commuters, make brisk business of the situation, Quick News Africa decided to find out for itself.
The first step was finding out how much a trip to Enugu would cost. No transport company in the small, old town of Ogoja was traveling anywhere. Their various head offices had banned the trips, except for intra-state travels.
“But, if you wan go, come by 6am tomorrow, make I show you the motor wey dey go. Na N7000,” someone who gave his name as Boke, disclosed under his breath.
“You say wetin?” my surprise was unpleasant.
“Bros, dem go pay bribe give army, police, forest guard for Enugu, community youth. Everybody go get the money, bros. No be we do am, na so the matter be.” He was trying to remonstrate with me.
This was on Friday.
Saturday, I was out early, at about 6am.
“Bros don show,” Boke said to a number of other touts around.
“But, bros,” he said, pointing at a maroon coloured Volkswagen Golf, “this motor dey go Abakaliki, but na N5000 e go collect. E go pay task for plenty people and e go move now now.”
The driver nodded in agreement and I got in.
“I be civilian, but my wife na soldier. We go reach now now. I dey collect 5k, because I no want problem of plenty passengers, just three of una. E get anybody here wey no get face-mask? Go buy now o,” he ordered, as he buckled in.
Drama set in at Mbock Junction. The Mobile Police (MoPol) were in no mood for ‘good mornings’.
“Where your wife dey serve?” the heavily hooded men asked the driver. They knew him.
“Ogoja Army Barracks.” He mentioned the battalion.
“Why do you have her army hat on your dashboard, if she is not the one driving?”
“This is her car.” He was cool, unfazed.
They took the hat from the dashboard and he went after them.
“Dem no like me. I no dey give them money,” he said upon his return. “But, I go make palava for them today. I go call boys for Barracks make dem come, say dem don carry their officer hat.”
One of the passengers, a dark, chubby lady, asked if he could take us to Abakaliki safely before coming back to make problem. He said he would.
The Immigration Check Point at Yala was empty. It must have been a little too early in the day for the personnel to report.
At the boundary between Cross River and Ebonyi, the business set in.
The lads wearing the yellow bibs, who identified themselves as members of the State Task Force asked for N500.
They got their share.
Just before Abakaliki, the policemen got their N300.
The military personnel let him go. Afterall, his wife was a military officer and they knew her. “’tion, sir,” he screamed at the army lady, as he drove away.
Again the Immigration personnel were still in bed. Their post was vacant.
The vehicle discharged it passengers at Onu Ebonyi, Abakaliki.
“Last bus stop,” the driver announced, as he issued directions for those to various places.
“If you are going Afikpo, go there.” He pointed.
“If you are going Enugu, wait here.” He pointed. “Motor we dey go go Enugu dey come now now”.
We said we were going to Enugu.
“But, why you collect 5k when e be say you no even spend reach 1,500?” This was me.
“Oga, hmmmm, that question, I no sabi o. You no know wetin dey happen for town now? I dey go find passenger.” With that, he got in and drove off.
The vehicle going to Enugu showed up in no time. It was a rickety, speedy bus.
“Enugu N500!!” The conductor was shouting it like a warning.
I stopped and looked at him. I had a re-think. “Which side una dey stop for Enugu?”
“We dey stop for Nkalagu Junction. From there, ou go enter motor wey go carry you go border.”
He noticed the hesitation and moved in for the kill.
“You no get motor wey dey go Enugu direct, master. Just enter make we dey go.”
I obeyed. Within 5 minutes, another vehicle was loading up. Destination: Enugu.
The bus arrived at the Nkalagu Junction, about 42 kilometers outside Enugu, within 20 minutes.
“Passengers poured out,” as the driver hollered “las bus stop”.
Not a few ‘okada’ men were waiting, as passengers mingled, rubbed bodies and climbed bikes. No one cared about the fact that the reason why getting to Enugu was becoming one huge bribe-extortion-fest was because of the lock-down occasioned by the Coronavirus. No one gave a toss. Very few had any masks on. Even fewer dabbed sanitisers after contact with others.
“Boundary N200. Idodo N1000.”
I balked again. I wanted to know the difference between both places. A passenger, the dark, chubby lady, pitched in. I didn’t know she was still around.
“I am going to Enugu, too. See, the boundary is still far from Enugu. From the boundary, you will still take another vehicle. But, if you go to Idodo, you are already in Enugu and you can just trek, until you see a vehicle to carry you.”
Immediately, I made up my mind to go to Idodo.
“Idodo na N1000 for one person. N2000 for two of una. Oga, if you wan enter alone, you go pay N2000. It was incredible.”
I looked at the lady, then back at the lad waiting to make a chunk. “You go carry us go for N1200?”
He would not.
“N1500 las.”
We hoped on.
He had one last instruction before we moved. “Na una go settle Forest Guards and police. Na bush we go pass.”
I was glad I would meet Governor Ugwuanyi’s Forest Guards but I was confused about his description of ‘bush’. We agreed.
We drove on tarred road for about 10 minutes, before he veered off into the bush. “Time don reach,” he announced.
We bounced around as he tried to meander his way past ridges and heaps. I gripped the metal I sat on, the lady gripped me and the bike man gripped the handle bars of his bike. For some reason, I looked up. We were riding under high tension wires stretching from Enugu into Ebonyi.
“Nna, hurry up make you drive comot from under high tension wire,” I made an attempt at haste, my mouth in my mouth, as I begged the whispering, voltage-laden wires not to fall.
We got off, so the bikeman could cross a stream.
“Na this road cheap pass. After you pay police N200, you go pay Forest Guard N200. The other people dey go follow inside village. Youths go collect N500, but dem no go warn passengers,” our bikeman threw in, as he ferried his bike across the stream.
The Forest Guards saw us before we saw them.
“Fresh man, where una dey go? Una too like Enugu. Make una stay una place, una no gree. Una wan enter Enugu. Oya, na, bring money for water.” His brand new pump-action rifle dangled from his hips and a blade of grass from his mouth.
He refused the offer of N200. The lady threw in another N200 and we were good to go.
“Oga, no pass here for night, if you dey go back o. These guys fit rob person. We dey hear say dem dey rob people.” It was a warning I knew I heeded the moment I heard it.
At Idodo, we alighted.
“But the place no far na,” the lady shouted.
“No be the distance, na the risk,” the lad corrected her and drove off.
Another phase drew near as we inched closer to Enugu.
The MoPol officer ushered pedestrians into the bushpaths to create way for them to ‘attend’ to the vehicles. Here, vehicles parted with N1000, N500, N1500, depending on what they were carrying. A number of anxious relatives waited in their cars at the other side of the divide to receive their kin who just cleared the last hurdle.
Now, to get to Enugu City.
We trekked away from the border and the activities going on there, while staying alert. It would not make sense to get all the way and get crushed by a ‘911’ trying to evade the barricade.
A long queue formed, as more ‘911’ trucks lined up, trying to get past. Vehicles honked and bikes zoomed past. Only those who walked did not draw attention.
“Enugu, Enugu,” a fellow called out to us.
“How much?”
“N400 na.”
We sighed. We had been warned by our bikeman not to pay more than N200, as the city was just 15 to 20 minutes out. It was ‘fleece’ time for everyone.
I left the bargaining for the lady and, after much haggling, we settled for N250 each.
I had confirmed what was happening at many inter-state boundaries, at least on this side. Also, it was clear that many Nigerians showed no respect for precautions and the virus that has killed thousands globally.
Just last week, a friend of mine wished the government would scrap the National Orientation Agency. “This is not a good time to be deaf”. I wondered if anyone would have listened, even if they howled the news from the roof-top.
I stopped at Kilimanjaro, along Old Artisan Road or something for a quick bite and made plans to go back.
On the way back. This time, the Immigration folks at Yala had showed up.
“Can I see any form of identification?”
Handed over my international passport.
“What kind of name is Jabul? You look like a Cameroonian, Are you on essential duty?”
I explained that, yes, I was on essential duty. I showed my identification, saw the look change, smiled and looked away as they started whispering uncomfortably. In no time, we were road-bound again.
“Oga, wetin you do them?” asked the driver.
“Nothing. As I talk, the officer just discover say my mouth dey smell.E no wan come back again.”
…and we shared a good laugh.
