Atop his head, crown to his oblong
face, resides half of an Afro. The other
half is a shiny bald spot which
gleamed in the faint light of a sun that
had only just begun to rouse itself
from its slumber. The line of
demarcation between the fertile and
the desert spot on his head was quite
unstable, like the lines of lightning that
gave illumination to the sky on a dark
cloudy day. He must have been
gunning for a neatly carved zigzag
demarcation, something fancy,
something his pals would view with
admiration and wondrous fascination.
The Harvey Specter of his clan would
he be.
“Apapa, Apapa……Tincan Island.”
“Two more chance.”
These phrases, regardless of whatever
part of the city they were being belted
out had become symphonies to the
ears of the caller and the listener alike
– that crude yet melodious and
unforgettable rhythm. Poetic lines
birthed into existence decades ago
when the private-owned public transit
system was introduced to the
populace.
There was a burnt patch of skin just
beneath the upward curve of his lower
lip. A conspicuous emblem of some
torturous event that had befallen him,
possibly during one of the numerous
altercations one would expect a person
with his occupation would be prone to.
Had the other party held a lighter to
his mouth? Held him in a vice-like grip
and pushed his face towards the
embers of a burning flame? Or a less
sensational incident like a spurt of hot
oil freeing itself from its infuriatingly
bubbly siblings in their charcoal-
baked stainless steel home, seeking to
evaporate into thin air, but somehow
landing on flesh instead?
His voice carried well at least forty
feet away from wherever he stood.
This made him the favourite of all the
“Johnny Just Come” drivers who had
only recently started picking up
passengers at Biribiri Park. Oddly, the
older drivers, older by virtue of the
fact that they had become regulars at
the park abhorred him with ferocious
intensity. The side-talks and
accompanying side-glances like darts
towards an uncaring target were
pretty obvious even to passengers like
me who only wanted to get out of the
park and on the road as quickly as
possible.
Apparently, whatever camaraderie he
shared with Biribiri Park’s “usual
suspects” did not extend to his fees. He
did his job well, called in the
passengers as agreed and expected the
drivers to do same by paying him his
going rate without much ado. Failure
to do this and the wrath of Jonbu
would be incurred. That was what his
colleagues called him. I could not
decipher if that was his real name or a
nickname. And like I had once told a
friend I often bumped into at the park,
I could bet my last penny that Jonbu’s
name was actually “Johnbull” and as
sung in the popular nursery rhyme,
this Jonbu may coincidentally not
know how to spell his name.
Commuters at Biribiri Park however
preferred to call him agbero – a word
mostly used in the Western part of
Nigeria to describe a tout majorly
resident at busy motor parks.
Regardless of the number of times
some visited that park, the agbero
name tag seemed to stick as a better fit
for Jonbu and his colleagues. I guess it
was a subconscious manner of
distancing themselves from the
personality of the agbero and thereby
dehumanizing same.
Under the fading dusk-tinted skies,
one could still make out the scar
streaks that lined his forearms, neck
and parts of his face. His self-chosen,
daily-worn and highly favoured
uniform: a faded green-colored
Danshiki with “BRF, he’s our man ooo”
printed all over it – a souvenir from
the 2007 elections did little to hide
these fragments of mutilation. I could
testify to how a few of the scars had
gotten there. Jonbu never shied away
from muscle tossing exercises.
One of the drivers that frequented my
destination had been a harbinger of
one of these scars. Billy, a name I’d
penned this particular one was quite
the uppity one who thought himself
better than everyone that passed
through Biribiri Park – Commuter or
otherwise. He never failed to inform
anyone who cared to listen that he was
a graduate of Political Science from
Obafemi Awolowo University who was
only doing this job because he
possessed a passion for driving. As
educated as he claimed he was, he had
made a costly mistake of thinking he
could outsmart unschooled Jonbu by
paying him half of his fees after the
latter had cried, called and beckoned
commuters to board the former’s bus
for over forty minutes.
I vividly recall Jonbu latching his arm
tightly around the steering wheel of
the 14-seater grade D tokunbo van as it
moved out of the park. Billy threw the
first punch. Unflinching, Jonbu
removed his dashiki which I was prone
to believe he had at least four of, since
that was the only outfit I’d ever seen
on him. He dragged the driver
completely out of the bus and
proceeded to pummel him. Billy,
fearing for his life, laid his sweaty,
dusty hands on a dirt worn pipe object
and dealt Jonbu a blow across the
cheeks with it. At this point, some of
the male passengers were already out
of the bus, holding Jonbu back to
prevent a deadly retaliation. All he
could do as six arms held him stiff was
to let out various blood-curdling
expletives while Billy, face swollen, got
into the bus and hurriedly drove out of
the park, thoughtlessly leaving behind
the three men who had saved him
from being maimed.
The next morning however, same old
Jonbu was back at his work station
already hired by another driver of a
bus headed in my direction as well.
Still taken aback by the incident from
the day before, I decided to take a bike
down to the next park which was just
a ten minute ride from Biribiri.
That was only one of the not so few
clashes I’d seen Jonbu get involved in.
He was ever conspicuous to the many
individuals that trooped in and out of
the motor park; his extra loud baritone
voice setting him apart from the other
agberos . Ironically, I’d caught him
engaged in jovial conversation with a
colleague and a soprano voice-type
had been evident. I’d wondered if his
get-up and vile demeanor was to make
up for his lack of an “ agbero -tone”,
which was crucial in this particular
line of business. He was pretty good
with the mimicry too.
One could perceive the fascination
with which Jonbu eyed the young men
with their stiff starched shirts, well-
tailored suits and pencil ties. They
trooped into the park to catch a means
of transportation every morning. Did
he at solitary moments, imagine for
himself a life free from altercations,
from despondency, from stagnancy,
from wages that always ended up in
the pockets of alcohol panderers and
cheap local courtesans. With the help
of the government or philanthropists
who were happy investing in the
rehabilitation of young people like
Jonbu, he could still be saved. He could
turn out to be a decent young man
with dreams of great successes burning
up the soles on his feet, pushing to
forge ahead against all odds.
The salvation of Jonbu would be more
difficult than I imagined as I was to
find out one fateful morning he
decided to act as a conductor for one
of the buses I was journeying in. The
bus wasn’t swiftly filled as expected, so
the driver offered Jonbu some extra
cash to ride with him while calling on
passengers along the way. Jonbu came
along and performed his duty
accordingly. Some few minutes into
the journey, the vehicle was packed
full with Jonbu hanging his frame on
the edge of the door way. Whenever
the driver noticed a troop of law
enforcement officers some metres
away, he would alert Jonbu who in
turn would squeeze his cologne-
deficient and unwashed frame into the
bus – head above the inhabitants
seated on the first row, hands
unsteadily hanging on to the backrest
of the third row, chest and stomach
serving as a canopy over the heads of
the commuters on the second row, feet
struggling for habitat within a space
only large enough to accommodate the
feet of the first occupant on the fourth
row.
“Please don’t step on me oooo.”
“You are aware you could have
reserved a seat for yourself.”
“Stop leaning on me please.”
These and more were the complaints
and warnings let out by disgruntled
passengers.
“Abeg I no well ooo. Make nobody try
me today.” Jonbu cussed back in fluent
pidgin without missing a beat.
“Na who una dey para for sef?”
And then it was time to collect the
fares. He started from the passenger’s
seat beside the driver, shouting that he
lacked smaller denominations to give
back as change. Thus, everyone was
expected to “give themselves brain”
just as he had earlier warned. Affected
passengers searched around for other
passengers with smaller
denominations, so they could get some
or all of their change before handing
over the larger denomination to Jonbu.
A man on the third row handed Jonbu
a N1,000 note and in irritation, he
threw the money back at the
passenger. He completed the collection
of the other passengers’ fares before
turning to the man. The N1,000 note
was tendered again. This led to a
further rant from Jonbu about how
mentally challenged he was and how
he would not shy away from an
opportunity to exemplify his mental
state to anyone who dared cross him.
“If you are the true son of your father,
throw that money at me again”. The
man responds quietly, staring
pointedly at Jonbu.
“If you lack change to give me, then
allow me come down.”
Jonbu screams at the driver to stop the
bus immediately all the while fuming
and shouting. Spittle was beginning to
form at the corners of his mouth. The
bus stopped as was commanded, its
occupants already having a foreboding
of what was to happen. The man
quietly made his way out of his seat
and stepped out of the vehicle
stretching his hand toward Jonbu for
his N1,000 bill. Jonbu positioned
himself formidably in front of the man
and requested payment for the
distance between the park and the
present stop or he would be unable to
return the money. He goes further to
accuse the man of trying to gain one
on him.
The man stares at Jonbu pointedly,
“Give me my money.”
“Pay me my money, oga.” Jonbu
barked.
There was an ominous silence which
lasted a few seconds.
Suddenly, the driver who hadn’t
intervened in the brawl turned on the
ignition and Jonbu jumped onto the
edge of the vehicle’s doorway whilst
urging the driver to pick up speed. As
the bus gained momentum, the languid
looking man shockingly jumped onto
the edge of the doorway beside Jonbu
and there ensued a tussle which led to
the both of them tumbling off the bus
while it was still in motion.
There were loud screams and shocked
gasps from all occupants as the bus
came to a screeching halt some feet
ahead of where both individuals had
fallen. All the passengers except me
rushed out of the bus immediately.
There was great pandemonium as
onlookers trooped to the scene. Jonbu
and the man tumbled around in the
dust each holding on tight to the
other’s shirts. Insults, curses and
threats were hurled at their long dead
ancestors and yet unborn generations.
I looked at my watch and decided at
that point that I would have to
sacrifice my N500 (the fare from
Biribiri to my destination). I got down
from the deserted bus, tip-toed past
the scene and walked on down in the
already scorching early morning sun
to another bus stop – a ten minute
walk ahead, leaving the gory scene of
blood, dust and pretentious,
unsympathetic onlookers behind. It
brought back memories of Roman
gladiator arenas I’d seen on TV.
The next day, Jonbu could be heard
crying out to all and sundry to make
haste in order to clinch the two seats
left in the bus going to Tincan Island. I
could not fathom how he was able to
mix near-death experiences with a
yearning for daily bread. Biribiri no
doubt served as an anodyne for Jonbu.
Many weeks later, I heard him no
more. It wasn’t a silence I noticed the
instant it stopped. It must have been a
month after he disappeared from the
Park that I observed his absence. I was
strangely curious about what may
have happened to him. Had he moved
on to a new park? Or found a new
job? Moved out of the environs,
maybe? After all, this was the same
Jonbu that had always dared all odds
to return to that one place he found
bliss: Biribiri Park.
That morning, I clinched the seat
beside the driver of the bus I was
boarding. It turned out to be Billy,
renowned for his chatterbox
tendencies.
He didn’t hide his surprise at the fact
that I had chosen to sit beside him –
one of the places in his bus I avoided
like the plague. Five minutes into our
journey, I introduced the topic of
Jonbu which he was quick to latch on
to like a bee to a honeycomb.
“Whatever do you think happened to
that agbero”? I asked, knowingly
keeping my eyes on the road.
“Which one?” He asked
“Some Jonbu guy like that, the guy
with the……” He didn’t allow me finish
my sentence.
“Oh Jonbu!” He responded lasciviously.
“You didn’t hear?”
I did not respond knowing fully well
that he was still going to spill the
beans.
“He mysteriously fell ill about a month
ago. Rumour has it that he was
poisoned by one of his wives. They’ve
transported him to his village for
treatment.”
“Oh!” I responded. “That’s sad.”
A passenger in the seat behind us had
apparently been listening in on our
conversation.
“No oooooo!” he jumped in. “That’s
not what I hear.”
“He win Canada Visa.” I could detect a
hint of jealousy.
“He travel last month.”
I glanced sideways at Billy. He
suddenly looked flustered. He
definitely hadn’t been expecting
anyone to challenge the tale he wished
was true.
“Where did you get your information
from?”, he retorted rather sharply. “A
friend of mine in this Park still spoke
to him this morning”, he added, not
wanting to come across as spreading
false rumours.
“He can’t win visa lottery. It is not
possible. I even heard that this same
Canada has banned…”
The ongoing argument between the
two men diminished into distant
voices reaching out from miles afar.
Biribiri had finally released Jonbu
from its clasp. He had unintentionally
added some amusement to my daily
travels, just like the buses, the drivers,
the commuters and the park itself.
Would Biribiri have itself another
Jonbu soon? I couldn’t tell, but
regardless of whatever wind of fate
had blown him out of the park, I
wished him a bucketful of luck.
