Transit Lounge

I love the convenience that comes with Airport Business Class Lounges; the free Wifi that enables one get work done while in transit, the assorted finger-licking finger food; sandwiches et all to satiate hunger, the array of beverages (alcoholic or non-alcoholic) to quench your thirst and the networking environment that it provides amidst the muted conversation and civility.
Two decades ago the only transit lounges I knew of where the Jibowu Luxury Bus Motor Park in Lagos and the Onitsha Head Bridge Motor Park in Anambra State. So yesterday, while waiting in the South African Airways business class lounge at the Oliver Tambo International Airport, for some reason, one of my many dalliances with the Motor Park Lounges played across my mind in Technicolor…nay, in 3D and Surround-System audio.
This particular return trip to Lagos was scheduled to be much more comfortable than the earlier trip from Lagos to Awka. This was in the early 90’s and the University of Lagos had been shut down by the authorities “with immediate effect” post one of the numerous “IBB Must go” demonstrations and I had felt it was a veritable opportunity to visit my family in Awka. That was my “wish”. To catalyze this wish into reality I had to first solve the little problem of raising the requisite transport fare. Not air fare oh! Luxury bus fare. Not the very comfortable air-conditioned-utilities-television equipped “Concorde” Luxury bus types but their Jurassic Park old generation progenitors otherwise known as “Akpuruka”, rugged. As providence will have it, I somehow managed to convince my elder sister, then a Bank Clerk in one of the old generation Banks in Lagos, to furnish me with enough money to make the outbound journey.
But again, enough is relative. At least I realized that when I arrived the Jibowu Motor Park early in the morning..early enough to strike up a friendship with a young Igbo conductor of one of the Akpuruka buses. I guess it helped that I bought a small bottle of Squadron Rum (the type that fits easily into the back-pocket of your jean) which I gladly shared with him. “Your cash is not complete” he effused in that Nigerian bus conductor trademark gravelly voice as he took a long swing from the bottle, “Nna but because you are a collect guy I will helup you reach Onitsha Headu Bridge”. With that he thrust a short wooden plank into my hands and we continued gisting away, alternatively taking swigs out of the bottle (I must have replenished the supply twice or thrice) and watching the more privileged passengers pay their full fare and board the bus amidst the chatter and general noise from the motor park. It was only when the regular seats had been sold-out and my conductor friend started chanting what he had earlier informed me was the signal to board, ‘Obele Oche! Obele Ego!’ “A small seat for a small fare” that I and others of my ilk scampered unto the bus firmly gripping our wooden planks which we proceeded to place across the aisle between adjourning seats. This proved to be our extremely uncomfortable seats for the entire journey. But then this story is not about the outbound journey from Lagos to Awka, for the return leg turned out to be much more interesting.
On this particular trip I met my father in extremely high spirits and with a bit more money at his disposal than usual. So on my return leg, laden with enough resources, I decided to splurge, spoil myself a little, and pay for a regular seat.
Again, enough is relative. I didn’t have enough money for the very comfortable air-conditioned-utilities-television equipped “Concorde” Luxury bus types, for my father’s extremely high spirits was still limited by the amount of money at his disposal (which wasn’t really that much). I didn’t even have enough money to pay for a regular seat on a cousin of the “Akpuruka” (or was it the same vehicle) that brought me from Lagos, at least not for their normal morning scheduled trips. But I had just enough transport fare to accommodate the much cheaper night bus trip.
I arrived Onitsha Head Bridge early as I had determined that if I was going to splurge on a full seat, I had to choose a strategic position. Which other position could be more strategic the seat right behind the Bus driver? Not the window seat directly behind the driver, the aisle seat. This was supposed to give me a clear view of the road as if I was a co-pilot of the vehicle, or so I thought. Again I struck up a conversation with the Bus Conductor. Again, the obligatory bottle of squadron emerged and ensured that our relationship was cemented amidst swirling alcohol fumes, the non-stop chatter of the motor park and tales of the bus conductor’s numerous female conquests.
What should have been the first sign of trouble was the fact that my chosen seat did not have an arm rest between the window and the aisle seat, but then that ordinarily shouldn’t be a problem, right?
Around 11 p.m. when the bus was ready to depart (the Bus driver was repeatedly hooting his horn signaling the stragglers to board), the window seat was still vacant and I was already mentally preparing myself for a very comfortable ride through the night, stretching out and sitting as I choose, when this giant of a man lumbered laboriously onto the bus and made straight for my much coveted window seat. I had to hurriedly get to my feet to enable him squeeze past me and it didn’t help his mobility that his arms where laden with bunches of bananas, bottles of groundnuts, several wraps of moin-moin and what looked like a nylon bag full of scotched-eggs and meat pies. I felt the bus settle further into the road as Oga-Man-Mountain settled into his seat and I can almost swear that I heard the vehicle’s shock-absorbers squeak in protest. Remember that I earlier noted the absence of an arm-rest between the two seats, right? Now Oga-Man-Mountain’s fluid body poured over to my side of the seat, corralling my small-in-comparison-frame into half of what should have been my seat and squeezing me into the hard rail of the aisle armrest. I opened my mouth to protest, but one look at Oga-Man-Mountain gulping down three giant sized scotched eggs simultaneously put paid to whatever I had to say and left my protest trapped in my throat. But then my ordeal was just about to start.
As the bus inched its way out of Onitsha, gathering speed into the rough gullet of the night, a female ‘Prayer Warrior’, one of my fellow passengers I guess, belted out (in that characteristic Pentecostal manner) a “Praiseeeeeeeeee da Loooord!!!”. The accompanying thunderous “Halleluiah!!!!” rattled the window panes of the bus, the sound energy travelling at Mach-3 through the folds in the flesh of my co-traveler, forcing his blubber to oscillate rapidly and slap against my skin several times. “Prayer Warrior” then proceeded to cover our entire 458 kilometer journey from Onitsha to Lagos with the blood of Jesus. Every nook, cranny, town, village on that route benefited from the crimson deluge. Not done, she incinerated the road with “Holy Ghost Fire”, her chants intermittently accompanied by the obligatory thunderous ‘Amen’ from the rest of the passengers. Each sound shock wave sent a tsunami of Oga-Man-Mountain’s human flesh crashing against my already battered body. I thought I was finished by the time “Prayer Warrior” started binding all the witches and wizards (those operating in covens as well as those operating solo) who lay in wait along our route, maliciously planning all manner of fatal accidents for us. She did not leave out the ‘every principalities and powers’, the “every powers of darkness”, the “every Emery”, “Mammy wata” and “ogbanje spirits”, the spirit of the “devourer”, spirits of premature and sudden death’, as well as generational curses and blood oaths covenanted on our behalf by our animist ancestors. She cast them faraway into the Kalahari Desert. I was later made to understand that Deserts are ideal for casting and that the Kalahari is preferred because of our proximity to the Sahara. Any adventurous and mobile evil Spirit can cover the distance between the Sahara and our route before the journey is over but the Kalahari? Anyway, I digress…
The last amen was the most thunderous, with Oga-Man-Mountain’s voice heard well over the din create by the rest of the passengers. As evidence of how serious he took this prayer session, a spray of spittle and mashed scotched egg found its way to the back of the Bus drivers seat, a splotch settling at the nape of his neck. I watched in horror as it trickled slowly down into the collar of his shirt, not sure if Oga-Man-Mountain would take offence if I leaned over to wipe it off.
Once the prayer session was over, the bus driver, as if to cement the supplications of the Prayer Warrior, slipped an Igbo Gospel cassette into his cassette player. You know the genre of Igbo gospel music I refer to right? The type that heralds your arrival at Onitsha Head Bridge or Ariaria Market Aba, that consists of a medley of guitar and local instruments and an individual screeching at the top of his or her lungs. 
On that trip I witnessed the most bizarre ‘Strictly Come Dancing” sow, with yours truly as an active participant. As the Cassette player blared out the first strains of the song Oga-Man-Mountain truly came to life.
Le Messiah mu oh! 
Le Messiah mu oh!
Onye amuma!!
Oga-Man-Mountain’s frame kick-started with a shudder, shivered violently as if he had been struck by a sudden case of virulent Iba fever, then he slowly commenced to sway to the music, gaining momentum as the music played on. His dance (while still seated) comprised of sudden almost spasmodic dip towards the right (into my already squashed frame) right hand pointing outwards at the “Le Messiah” note and an equally sharp retraction towards the left (against the window), the now retracted right hand pointed upwards to his left collar bone at the “mu oh!”. His first couple of dance moves was pure torture for me, as each time, his massive frame came crushing against my left rib-cage, pressing my right side against the aisle arm rest…that was until I had a light-bulb moment. So the next time I saw the dip towards the right I mimicked his exact movement. Eventually, once I got his rhythm right, all an innocuous bystander wold have seen was two jolly fellows dancing away to the rhythm of; 
Le Messiah mu oh! 
Le Messiah mu oh! 
Onye amuma!
This non-discretionary dance continued through the song, onto the night gospel song, through the night, for the better part of the journey. 
Winded, side and joints aching, sweating, yet my dance partner and I continued with our medley and only stopped in mid-move when I realized that people where beginning to stare. I was saved from further embarrassment by the bell, as over the public announcement system floated the melodious (to my ears) news that “South African Airways wishes to announce the departure of flight SA 61 to Lusaka. All checked in passengers should please proceed to the aircraft for boarding at Gate A22”. 
As I picked up my carry-all, I couldn’t help giving my staring Business Class Lounge audience one last “Le Messiah mu oh!” dip with a flourish…






Jekwu Ozoemene©2013