How Far would you go to defend your beliefs?

The Bus Ride

The consciousness had never been this high.
People who used to feel detached and unconcerned, now debate in Cafeterias and on bustling streets. Newspaper vendors, never witnessed so much sales and attention, these days, their headlines were flooded with Libels and written slander. Headlines are up for sale to the highest bidder and the mass media are divided along political battle lines.

The circumstances surrounding these forth coming elections are absolutely unpredictable. While some sing of change and the enthronement of a new dispensation, others prefer to water the dying tree of continuity, hoping that another four years would see it finally bearing the much awaited fruits of development and national security. Yet, some others disagree with both aforementioned groups. A third party clamours for a total breakaway from the present and the past. They neither want a four year extension of the present nor a repeat of the past. This third group clamours for the majority of the numerous minority parties, who unfortunately garners the fewer percentage of the electorate.

Somewhere on the corner of a sleeping Lagos street, a grey-hair recounts events of years past. Times when one naira equalled one dollar on the foreign exchange market. His army of young listeners stood attentively,  forming a semi-circle around him, captivated by the educative voice of over eight decades old. The grey hair, sadly recounts years of when his country stood tall and proud among the comity of Nations. He speaks of those years with grave sadness, he remembers them as a mother would, a foetus that was dead at birth.

I board a bus-load of students and youths, all of whom had just left the venue of a town Hall meeting, where smear politics had just been executed by yet another political party. The Bus is filled with silence, but was also as tense as a house filled with petrol, waiting for just a spark to ignite it's ability to explode.

As if on cue, someone hisses then says "na change sure pass". Finally, the spark had been lit and it was just a matter of minutes before it boomeranged into a raging conflagration of spittle, voices and curses. A young man at the back replies "change koh, change ni". At this point, the line had been drawn and the only thing left was for the other passengers to take sides. Verbal pellets flew from one end of the Toyota hiace Bus to the other, someone threw a verbal punch at me, although it was disguised as a question, i quickly ducked behind the comfort of my phone and pretended that no harm hard been done to my aching ego. "Him too old!", abeg make una leave the grandpa make him go rest", this statement was immediately replied by a thick lady, who retorted 'how old was Nelson Mandela when him rule South Africa?. Swords have been drawn, gradually, verbal incisions began to see razor sharp mouths piercing through the intellectual armour of the other party. Issues were raised, questions about the country's age, minus the decades of colonialism, Which region had ruled most since independence? Who had executed the most coups? Which ethnicity possessed more mineral resources? Who were the parasites, who are the hosts?

Throughout the rancour and verbal bloodletting, the driver never muttered a single word. His grey hairs had not grown white merely because of age, He had witnessed several elections, both before and after the Civil war. He had lived through the country's worst and best of times.

At the age of fourteen, he had been forcefully conscripted into the army of the seceding Biafran side to fight against the federal forces. There was nothing civil about the numerous scars that criss-crossed the length and breadth of his back. They were evidence to the immense torture he had received at the hands of the ruthless Hausa soldiers, after he was captured. The Driver had no need for verbal debates with such inexperienced youngsters. They were merely Children of privilege, who were bore at the altar of Social media and search engines, youths who grew on tablets and smart phones, young adults who worked in offices were all they did was drink coffee and punch mechanically at computer keyboards. Youths of nowadays were Cowards who only voiced their thoughts within the safety of a cozy bus ride, they only criticised behind the safety of their phone's keyboard. Half-baked youths, who only condemned the government in front of the 32' inch flat screen Televisions during the 8' o'clock news.

The Driver sharply swerved to the left, successfully maneuvering a pot-hole. His mind tethered on some random thoughts "how long can our Youths stand for what they believe in?", "to what extent would they go to defend their beliefs?". Fortunately, his answers were not farfetched. As the Bus approached a Police checkpoint, an eerie silence suddenly enveloped the interior of the Bus, as if on cue, immediately they sited the policemen everyone suddenly seemed to have run out of ideas regarding what to say. If a passerby were to emerge on the scene, He would never have believed that there had been as much as a word, ever muttered within the confines of that Bus.

Written by Onyeoziri Favour
(Poet, Writer & Blogger)