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!

The dreams, life, destiny.

Therein lies our hope.

Today, I would share a story, about a woman who bore a tribe.
The tribe was rich, magnificent and grand. It flourished for a long while and then it begun to deteriorate. Slowly at first then drastically. Eventually, due to events that occurred, the mother of the tribe was forced to trade the freedom of the people for sustenance to a beast that fed on malice.

Some remembered a time before, a time where they had freedom, choice and will. A time before they were pompous and vain so confident in their glory that they began to forget.
The tribe forgot what it was that made them special; their essence, their pride, their roots.
Over time they became lost.
It was easy for the demons of plague, drought and misery to overpower and conquer them.

From the bondage of the beast, the tribe looked to their mother for salvation.
In response, she taught them a dance.
Outraged, they protested; had she lost her senses?

Why on earth should they be made to sing and dance when their futures remained uncertain?
How could she call herself their mother whilst her offspring perished at infancy?

The beast you see, was also her child.
They knew she had the power to stop it.
For they had decided: should she choose to free them, she could. She could end their tribulations; she only had to care.

In their history it was noted "We cried to her for help but for us, she did nothing".

In rebellion, they turned away from her.
To them she was heartless, to them she was a farce; they would have nothing to do with her.

In the midst of the tortured, there were a few who learned the dance in trust.
Through trials, starvation and death, they persisted, sang and danced.
Never ceasing, never failing.
This dance was taught to the little one’s, the children that survived.
One generation to the next.
When the time was right, the dance made sense.

Hidden in the lyrics, rhythm and beat was a means to kill the beast.


In my present location, when my conscience would allow, I count the number of beggars that line the streets.
If I were to give each of them 10 Naira going and coming, I would spend nothing less than about 2,040 Naira a day.
Amongst these caste the nursing mothers and gaily-dressed get to me.
Who is responsible for putting them in the family way? Is there a community of beggars or a union? Are they born to be beggars or is it something they grow up to be?
With one hand they hold their baby to their breast, with the other hand they reach for you.
Begging for some change, playing on your conscience, vying for your pity.
Once in another state, I decided to walk home and gave my supposed transport fare to a man who told me he had not eaten in days figuring a morsel would be better than nothing.
The man threw the money back at me, cursed me in his dialect asking if he begged to be insulted.
I did not walk home.

We pray for those we love, those we care about and for ourselves.
Some of us get involved in freak accidents, loose limbs, defy the odds and come out victorious, while some walk away unscratched but are convinced our lives would never be the same.

They say death is the summit of life, did they also say to appoint yourselves judge and executioner over the life of another man?

Each day is a battle, one of choice and will.

Today I would share a prayer for strength, to those who have lost beloved partners, relations and friends.

The dead are now free, from the bondage of hope.

May they rest in peace.