Anyhow you look at it, poverty (for that’s its name) now roams the streets of Lagos with careless abandon. Officialdom may continue to excite itself by how lofty the intents of its programmes are. But the outcomes are far from re-assuring anymore. The streets no longer feel safe, especially in daylight.
On the streets, you bump into it regularly. Not too long ago, it masqueraded as a beggar ― importuning, and stuck on you like a shadow (lengthening if you felt any empathy, and abrupt if you didn’t) as you meandered your way through bothersome traffic. Then, it morphed into agile young things, trays of bric-a-brac on their heads, accelerating and screeching to a halt in ugly symphony with the best of the vehicles in traffic. This iteration was focussed on one thing, and one thing alone ― selling a unit of whatever it is it purveyed.
Ever wondered what the country’s outlook at the Olympics would have been were these youthful types better educated, trained, fed, and outfitted? I have. As indeed I have remained baffled by the economics of it all. A back-of-the-envelope estimate of the total cost of the tray on each street hawker’s head never ever yields much of value. And this is before you factor in the wear and tear from exposure to often inclement weather conditions, the sheer health expense of the episodic 100-metre dashes, the fact that, invariably, the contents of the tray are obtained on credit every morning, and the ground rent that each vendor pays daily to “those who own the earth”.
Today, its habiliment is different, once again. Neither mendicant nor merchant, it is now a lot younger than the earlier cohorts. He (nearly always male) hugs your side mirror ― the one by the median barrier ― melodramatically pointing incessantly at his mouth as if suffering from a mild case of Tourette’s syndrome. Until recently, I would have attributed the emptiness in his eyes to the use of narcotics. But, today, there’s a difference from meeting him eyeball-to-eyeball. Whereas before, there was diffidence and deference, in its place, now, is an unspoken indictment, at once cathartic and minatory. After the first glance, you struggle not to catch his eyes as you rapidly decide whether giving him money is such a good idea. There’s that part of his stare that a good meal could fix. But you also fear that there’s the other part that a bulging wallet could incense. Any which way, you only feel safer when traffic begins to move and you can put considerable distance between you and him.
…in truth, there goeth the consequence of our collective failures. (And God may not have much to do with this). A failure that’s compounded by my occasional refusal to part with a dime. How do I explain this act of wickedness to myself?
Anyhow you look at it, poverty (for that’s its name) now roams the streets of Lagos with careless abandon. Officialdom may continue to excite itself by how lofty the intents of its programmes are. But the outcomes are far from re-assuring anymore. The streets no longer feel safe, especially in daylight.
And so I avoid downmarket experiences. I now shop for my groceries in fancy outlets located in equally fancy malls. Parked cars are safe, for starters. Poor odds of returning to a “danfo”, “okada”, or keke Napep” driver’s poor ministrations leading to re-doing of your car’s bodywork or altering the complexion of the paintwork. Besides, the ambience in the bigger shops ― air-conditioning, etc. ― makes for a better overall shopping experience.
That is until our new reality inveigled its way into those places, too. Better accoutred and pleasantly spoken than the cohorts on the streets, this version of want is far more troubling. If, given how badly-run our economy is, I am one unpleasant experience (ailment, job loss, etc.) away from extreme want, then each time I look into those eyes, I see myself. The counter-glare never offers a reproach. Not at all. Instead, it holds a disquieting promise of things to come. I turn my back after each encounter, muttering, sotto voce, “There goeth I, but for the grace of God”. But long before I’m done uttering these words, the sheer meaninglessness of the very idea hits me.
A decade ago, a not too dissimilar anger led Mohammed Bouazzizi to douse himself in lighter fluid and self-immolate. The rest is history. Fortunately, we still have the chance (and hopefully, just enough time) to write a more salutary future for this country.
For, in truth, there goeth the consequence of our collective failures. (And God may not have much to do with this). A failure that’s compounded by my occasional refusal to part with a dime. How do I explain this act of wickedness to myself? Twenty years ago, a friend invited us to convert N5,000 into N50 notes and to hand one over each time a beggar approached us. It was impractical. It was unsustainable. Charity can’t patch the hole in our social and economic fabric. Nor can any one person give enough without blowing a huge hole in his/her income-welfare continuum. And yet we have to give. But it is possible also, for the sufficiently desperate, wily, and slatternly to create a list of 50 friends, and monthly send out an SOS to them. All that’s required is for any ten of them to part with N20,000 every month, and one is in business.
Unsure, then, what is legit and what is scam, charity suffers. And in some scorned heart, in some forlorn place, anger builds up ― even as the pangs of hunger never cease to rumble. A decade ago, a not too dissimilar anger led Mohammed Bouazzizi to douse himself in lighter fluid and self-immolate. The rest is history. Fortunately, we still have the chance (and hopefully, just enough time) to write a more salutary future for this country.
Uddin Ifeanyi, journalist manqué and retired civil servant, can be reached @IfeanyiUddin.
