SIGNING MY DEATH WARRANT

“Okada man slow down”, is a statement often said to the men who drive okadas, the deadly necessities that invaded every nook and cranny of the bustling city of Lagos. Being the fussy teenager that I was, I refused to use this terrifying means of transportation and preferred to walk miles than to risk riding on this infamous motorcycle. You see the problem was not with the motorcycle itself, but the riders. Everyone agreed that with the speed and recklessness that the daredevil drivers rode with, the okada riders had signed their death warrants. As I overcame my fears and started ‘biking’ (the art of okada riding), it dawned on me that I may have also signed my death warrant.

I remember the first day I mounted an okada, I say mounted because everyone said I did it the wrong way as if I was mounting a horse. “What is the right way?” I countered, as I placed my foot on the left pedestal, swung my right leg across the seat and settled in. A few more rides and bruises taught me the experienced way of climbing in safely, but that was all the safety I was going to get. As time went on, the combined fast pace of Lagos and my life led me to bike at every opportunity. I biked to and from school, I biked to my religious meeting, I biked to run errands, and I biked to make my hair. Yet each time I got on an okada, my heart will beat at a tornado’s speed and I always got to my destination feeling heady.

One day my father saw me alight from an okada and nearly screamed my head off. My first reaction was, “Am I expected to ride a donkey? I am not chauffeured to places. Of course, I muttered those words under my breath. ; I could give every excuse under the stars why I had to take an okada; Lagos traffic, racing against time, and impassable roads. Despite my father’s irate remarks and my anxieties, I continued to use the okadas, even on major roads. My frequented routes were Onikan to Lekki, Yaba to Lagos Island, Lagos Island to Victoria Island, Yaba to Ikeja, Ikeja to Ogba, Yaba to Ojota, Third Mainland Bridge, and Carter Bridge, but I was not deterred. Every time I said, “This would be my last okada ride,” especially when the rider attempted to kill me with his reckless weaving in and out of traffic, it turned out to be a big joke.

I witnessed a couple of okada accidents myself and said a long “hmmm that could have been me” each time. Soon enough, I too had my share, three nerve racking and road skidding accidents. The first one was on a Sunday morning. I was running late for my religious meeting and my rough calculation showed that walking would get me there ten minutes late, so I called an okada. We had barely gone 15 seconds and my mind was off the road when I saw a bus halt abruptly in front of the bike. Screeeech! In a jiffy, I was on the floor stunned as a blind man regaining his sight. A couple of good Samaritans helped me scramble to my feet and as usual, there was a tirade about who was right and wrong between the two parties. Needless to say, I got to my destination a whole 40 minutes late, bruised and shaken, while vowing that this will be my first and last okada accident, but as it goes in Pidgin English, Na lie!

There is something worse than riding on an okada, riding with a second passenger. Now this is something that I do not like, but circumstances change like the weather. It was a fateful night and I was coming back from an unproductive venture when my worried big sis came searching for me. That night, Chelsea and Manchester United were playing the English premiership finals and the roads were deserted. In her haste and worry, she took an okada for she did not want to be stranded in traffic with a car. Upon her arrival, we combed the streets for a commercial bus to return home, but all to no avail. After walking some miles, we found one of the necessary evils and set off. As we approached a road under construction, my inner voice told me to get down and walk, but before I could say, “okada please go slower”, we were smashed into the rocks of the undulated road. My sister’s leg was trapped in one of the tire’s spokes and she had several bruises. I cried more than her as we were helped home by more good Samaritans, then to the hospital by her husband, and back home at well past midnight.

That incident really shook me and I did do a great deal of walking and busing for several weeks, but eventually I went back to riding with the daredevils. My third okada accident was with my immediate older sister and boy was this driver speeding. We screamed all the printable pleas one can think of, “Okada we are young oh, Okada do you want to kill us, Okada drop us now”, but he seemed to have lost his sense of hearing and his willingness to live another day for he rammed into an approaching vehicle in a matter of seconds. My knee was badly bruised and I thought I had broken my leg. My unscathed sister calmly reassured me that I was well for I thought I was dying. After much sobbing and babbling, I regained my composure and hobbled for the rest of our journey.

Once beaten, twice shy, the saying goes, but for me, it is thrice beaten and not near shy. It can’t be an addiction for I actually hate using an okada and I brace myself with the thought that this may be my last minutes alive until I reach my destination. Nonetheless, I still find myself hollering for an okada across the road. Therefore, I have resigned myself to the facts that not only have these reckless and terrifying riders signed their death warrants, so have I.