Qui est Risky ?

About two years ago, during the news hour on radio, I heard that commercial bike riders informally referred to as okada riders were banned from having any form of music devices on their 2-wheeled vehicles.
I often wondered how it was possible for a bike to have radio sets and if it was, why the government official’s were being player haters.
This morning, while listening to the headlines and trying to be a little above late for community service, my attention was caught by news that an okada rider was crushed to death by a moving 6,000 pound truck while attempting to flee form the police.

It happened that the okada man who was a tailor by day and a hustler by night took up bike riding as a means of supplementing his income.
The radio reporter went ahead to advise okada men that it was better to be arrested by the police than end up dead.
Midway between pulling my T-shirt over my chest and nodding my head in agreement, I remembered an occasion when while on said okada, I spotted a gaggle of uniformed men and noticed my okada driver was being flagged down.

They were road safety officials.

Seeing a line up of Okada men ahead kneeling and pleading, my driver did not want to wait and see if he would join the chain of uncanny beggars or be given a medal of excellence.

Rather than stop like he was signaled to, he accelerated and thoughtfully dared the official to do his worst.
I was pleading with him to slow down a bit when the outraged officer whipped out his work worn palms, threw all his weight to his right hand and slapped the okada driver as he zoomed past.

The road shook, the bike shook, I shook.
In that instant, I felt (not watched) the high points of my life so far flash before my eyes (in 3D).

Considering the speed at which he was moving, I did not know if I should stop-drop and roll, reach forward and take over control of the bike or start reciting a prayer to my guardian angel.

Luckily for me, I did not have to do either.
The bike-man had quick reflexes, high tolerance for pain and was intelligent to boot.
He was able to regain control of the bike, meander through the busy Thursday morning traffic and get the both of us safely to the other side.
He told me he had to stop; I was too shaken up to respond.

When he parked I took a look at him.

In less than 3 minutes, the right part of his face around the region of his eyes was swollen, tears flowed incessantly down his face and there were beads of sweat lining his forehead.

Thinking back to that incident, I am not sure of how to react anymore.

I have watched with fascination as daredevil okada riders sat on the engines of their motorbikes and raced like rabid madmen up and down the road (I suspect aside from the adrenaline rush going through their veins, something goes on between their intimate anatomy and the bike’s motor).

I have trembled in fear as two men who appeared to be military men, patrolling on an okada, ran their murky fingers over my body and through my pockets. Robbing my cousin and I of not only our belongings but also our trust for uniformed men.

I have chatted with okada riders who recounted incredible stories of how they broke away from bad company and were determined to make a life for themselves.
Once I took a number.
On a whim, I called.
He announced that he was now the proud owner of a tokunbo car!




Risky, Risky, where’d you go?
With wit like a whip
He’s faster than a flash

Risky, Risky, see that streak?
Like a bullet to its target
Risky’s straight to the goal




...coming soon, Risky!