Abuja in green, white and RED

6:25pm. our bus was lightened with speed. On one of the elongated polished roads of the capital, connecting Kogi state. The roads here shone like plenty buckets of sheen were coated on it. It was the opposite of the type I encountered in the eastern route of the country where my journey began. I guess this is what “Abuja roads” connotes. Each time, it is been sung on radios, televisions, even on the cyber world these days. “Abuja is a masterpiece of roads”; “no road network in Nigeria will be as good as Abuja’s”; “our politicians use money meant for other state’s roads in Abuja”. So the headlines of accusations and counter accusations topple each other continuously, especially when a massive road accident occurs and the news circulates. But I guess some of the headlines maybe true. If… maybe… if there will be concentration of road funds on some of these states, like the Abia state federal road connecting Rivers and Enugu state, will not be so bad. Maybe, the Ebonyi state federal road linking up with Cross-river won’t be a quick sanded gully of mud, especially in rainy season. Maybe, the muddy swimming pools our people call roads in Port Harcourt and Lagos won’t be in existence. Maybe, the miracle of roads done in Abuja would’ve saved the lives of casualties of Nigerian roads. Just maybe. Gwagwalada. The town that houses Uniabuja brought back so many memories. Memories of Post-Ume trial some years back. The customary noise emanating from hooting cars on traffic jam was present. Okadas maneuvered their ways in and out any available space within the jam. The town smelt of recovering rot, with dusty outlook. Foods sellers hawking carelessly, music blaring from advertising speakers mounted on wheelbarrows and tops of cars; sick looking cars. Traffic wardens waving their arms in calculated manner. Population of people with younger looks forming the wave of pedestrian walkers. Headphones hung on ears, fancy glasses pinned on heads; waists in sexy swings. Shops all lined up along the road haphazardly, giving off little space for orderly parking. Change was picking on here and there. There was the visible new bridge still undergoing construction, at a tortoise pace; mini malls have been opened; increased number of filling stations; air tainted with activities of generating sets and queue of cars; Fulani women milk hawkers displaying their wares as they walked along in lazy strides, suya sellers taking their positions as daylight fades. Generally, the town was still a baby of urbanization; the town still wore an antithetical sight of disorganization compared to Abuja metropolis which rests in the peak of organization. Gradually, our five hours journey was coming to a halt. One hour more, we will be at Peace Park in Utako, part of the heart of Abuja metropolis. The mood inside the bus was calm, solemn, awakening and life picking up. Conversations were stirred around in some seats. Some were waking up from prolonged sleep. A lady can be heard laughing unabated at a slightest disturbance of the bus. No one seemed bothered. Many of the passengers were beseeched with awkward aches at their legs and buttocks. Especially with stranger indigenes that have forgotten the long hours spent on the road. Mine has been stretched uncountable times. At present, my sitting position at the second row middle-seat of the bus has turned to a manipulated K-legged. Giving my thighs the benefit of a stretch. Daylight was gradually going into hibernation. Darkness was sipping in with speed of a runner; marathon runner. Dark shadows were already formed on the roads. The shiny lights of vehicles kept life of movement. With our diversion to airport road, a new wave of enthusiasm passed through me. I was on the lookout to see the new permanent site of University of Abuja. To see how many activities went on at the gate of the school. I guess that is natural from one in the field of scholarship. Along the roads, trees stood still like soldiers at arms. The wind dancing on their leaves; humidity has lowered, the air became cooler. The poles of street lights, lined up in the middle, and left and right flanks of the road, were becoming alive simultaneously, giving off a glowing hue on the roads. Another aspect of “Abuja roads”. Having witnessed what I intended to see at the University’s main gates, my wind of enthusiasm turned to the gigantic YOU’RE WELCOME sign that stood in the middle of the dual roads leading into the heart of the city. I was hoping to see it. It has a way of lifting up one, with its calm white color. It was like a giant that always tell you “All is well”; you’re at home now. That sign was Abuja’s statue of the three wise men of Lagos, welcoming visitors. But the driver had a different agendum. He struck a disappointing cord when he announced that Zuba-Kubwa axis will be followed for the benefit of passengers living there. With dejection resting on my face, I looked away. Kubwa. Even though Kubwa is part of many suburbs circling the metropolis, but the real Abuja was emerging. The Abuja of my childhood. Planned houses. Roads marked. Beautiful skyline, mountains stood, forming canopy-like shields on the city; poles of streetlights on, without one shutting its eyes. Orderly flowers and trees planted alongside the roads all waving to tinted vehicles that zoomed past them on daily basis, roads with polished floors that grows bigger and fatter on daily basis thanks to activities of Julius Berger and Dantata construction companies. New by-passed roads leading into nooks and crannies of Kubwa constructed, with some bridges undergoing construction. Then something shiny flickered at my front, like steely, metals, all lined up underneath a bridge. A railway track. I couldn’t believe it. My gaze fixed on it intently, trying to dissuade my eyes that I was dreaming, that maybe we’re still at Ajaokuta in Kogi state or in Agbor in Delta state, or even in Enugu state, my point of origin of the journey, where I’ve seen these rail tracks meant for coal transport. But, the more I looked, the more I saw the shiny tracks starring back at me without flinching. I tapped a neighbor. Are we in Kubwa? I asked with deliberate naivety. My neighbor, a man with a look of late twenty’s youthfulness nodded assuredly. Are those railway tracks that the streetlight is reflecting on? I asked again, with surprise coloring on my face. He gave a knowing smile, and nodded again. Then he added. There are many of them around the city, almost in completion stage. Soon, I can take a train to work, there will be railway terminals, and the cost of transportation will be cheapened. I absorbed this news like a child in a new infant class, trying to understand a whole new knowledge. Like the concept of railway transport in Nigeria. Will you blame me? Since Obasanjo’s tenure, the media had been agog and aroused with news of re-introduction of railway transport in Nigeria; millions of naira and dollar have been spent; yet all we saw were railway project drawn on paper; architectural plans of railway on A4 papers; no realities. The day I read about GEJ trying to reinvent it, I gave it a scoff, a deep-seated scoff that came from memories of hopes unfulfilled, a scoff that summarized the lack of trust many Nigerians have on the government, especially on proposed projects. We don’t ever believe a government proposed project until it turns to reality. That is our situation because of our long history of defeated aspirations by our leaders and lack of integrity and fidelity to promises they attach to their words. Our leaders have all turned us to biblical doubting Thomases of new times. Now, you can see the angle of my surprise. Now, you feel the wave of happy spirit twirling in me at this surprising stunt pulled off by GEJ. 7:15pm. our tiring bus finally pulled in inside the concrete tarred park of Peace transport at Utako, alongside tens of buses, all lined up horizontally; parked, awaiting a new tale, new sojourn, the next day. We breathed a collective sighs of relief; some added some packets of gratitude in-between; both to the driver, and unseen good spirits guarding the roads. ******************** I spent a full week in Abuja. Some days were filled with in-door activities; others were spent on the roads. Something struck me in my sojourn around the city. I found that my old city was gradually going to sleep. The vivacity associated with some areas like in Berger roundabout, around Garki and Wuse markets; UTC in Area 10; Sky memorial in Wuse, zone 6, were all gone. What was found in these areas were muted, solemn atmosphere with persons driven into fear, marching past them. The green and white, Abuja colors, private buses used for public transport were all gone. The buses that have been the savior of students and middle-classed workers; traders, and unskilled laborers. In replacement were the expensive taxis that seemed to be operated on fixed price system. Another that followed the exit of the buses was Keke Napep. The yellow and black; green and white tricycles, that replaced motorcycles following its ban, plying the cities, were all gone. Vanished, vamoosed. I felt sad. Sadder at the realization that my old city was drastically turning into a bigman city. These bans further gave credence that it was hurrying becoming that. But the mood of the people living in the city scared me the most. Something awfully sizzling and captivating rented the air. Hidden fear; manifesting daily with an overwhelming alacrity. The taxi drivers spoke about it in riddles, people somehow looked back while walking, traffic jams within the city has turned to bad news, with sudden sweat, not caused by sun, but by the beating of fretful heart, forming pools of perspiration on the face temples and back of passengers. Conversations always surrounded on that topic, sometimes in hushed tone for fear of who is listening. The antagonisms between the different members of ethnic groups in Nigeria have heightened. There was this general fear of an average Hausa man on the streets; like potential bombers. Something was not right. This was not the city I left some years back. This was not the city that I mingled with many persons of differing ethnic groups that united in Abuja in search of greener pastures and daily manna. This was not the city that majority of my classmates were Hausas, yet, we all mingled with one heart, sometimes interchanging and exchanging the knowledge of our different languages, skills, and food. This was not the city that I ate my first tuwo-shinkafa, which I found out was as sweet as the customary akpu and pounded yam from my side. This was not the city were my Gwari and Hausa neighbors tried to teach me hair-weaving, a skill which I still regret till today for failing to show interest; thus, failing to learn it. This was a different city, raking with a desolating red color. A red color signifying disunity and impending fear of death hovering on the people. My old Abuja has turned to the haunted; no more the hunter of Boko Haram. My city of childhood has become the attack ground of the terrorists. Unattended cries of help rent in the air; no one seems to give a listening ear. Who will bring back my old Abuja? Who will give me back the city of Zuma rock with its beautiful and quiet scenery? For the first time, the reality is dawning on me. There’s terror in the land; terror with a chameleon face, hydra arms and regenerating legs. It is gradually turning into a monstrous giant without control. Like a cancerous disease, it is spreading at an alarming rate. Everyone is at amiss. Confusion and counter accusations are the daily missiles being hauled around. No solution, no help. The reality is becoming real daily. No more Facebook and Twitter account of their activities. No more CNN and NTA version of the terror. Now, Abuja residents are becoming the primary data. First-hand story tellers. They are having the reality of Borno state at their shopping malls, public viewing centers and motor parks. Even churches are not spared. The St. Theresa’s incident is still far afresh in people’s memories. Though it happened in Madalla, but it was just a walk away from boundary of Abuja. It is like comparing the distance of Lesotho from South Africa. The few times I went to church in the course of my stay, I saw fear; capital lettered FEAR on the faces of security personnel and worshippers. I must commend the latter for trying to shield it from ordinary prying eyes with their supposedly presence- of- God mien. The worshippers knew that the security personnel that were hired to guard and protect them can only be trusted with the type of confidence placed on Nigerian police. They all knew that no one really is paying so much attention to their lives, even within the house of God, except God, which is not really so much of a pragmatic consolation and solution. Please do not misunderstand me. I know the wonders of God. But hello, God himself won’t come down to save us from our national mess, God can only use his vessels which are human beings to do this work, but again, I have not seen much of these vessels in action. All I saw was a personal race for survival, even from our so-called national protectors, whose duty was to protect the residents. This job is what earned them salary monthly. This is like their exchange power in the labor market which they subscribed to, but it is only unfortunate that every month, millions and thousands are paid into their accounts without them giving proper account of their services. This is our version of imbalanced trade by barter, parasitic relationship, unfulfillment of social contract between the Abuja residents and the city’s government. These were the saddening thoughts that beclouded me as I left the city a week later.