… where sa-tyres never go flat
… where sa-tyres never go flat
My grandfather? A jolly old chap he is! But he forbids politics and all government-related palavers. Such things bother him a great deal. Only two things matter to him – pool betting and palm wine. He is simple like that. Anyhow, when I got home and my grandfather pulled me aside to lament how the hardship caused by some imbecile government policies had affected pool betting and the price of palm wine, I knew there was trouble.
The worker ants are those government workers commuting between anthills of metal and glass, wearing threadbare suits and those fancy puppy leashes they call ties. They weightlift crumbs of the national cake bigger than their own financial size to pay homage to the colonial masters before ultimately falling apart, appendage by appendage, to be sustained only by the trickle of nutrients we call pension.
As the driver approached it, the pothole cried out with a loud voice, “Who are you, driver?” Our driver responded as fast as the economic growth rate of Nigeria with, “I am Muhammed from Bornu state.” To my amazement, the pothole closed up leaving us with a smooth road to drive through. I asked the driver what just happened, he said, “Walahi, it’s because I’m from Bornu. What affects other Nigerians doesn’t affect us. Some basic problems other people encounter don’t come near us.”
