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!

Sling-back hooves

A freak accident is an accident that is extremely unlikely and unusual.
It is kind of like breaking your wrist from tripping over a lizard while paying for fuel you brought 65 Naira per liter at a petrol station in Nigeria today.
Breaking it down further, I will go ahead and paint a picture.
Please follow me.

Imagine waking up at dawn to a bright and promising morning.
Imagine checking your calendar and preparing for an appointment that would herald your biggest break ever.
Imagine being careful with your wardrobe, accessories and (if you are female or Denrele) make up.

Note the absence of the need to get maimed or die in the sequence?
Good.
Now imagine being stuck in traffic for about an hour, lamenting on the loss of precious time and then having the bright idea to hop on an Okada
(motor bikes with the ability via the experience of the driver to meander through traffic at a daredevil pace) to get to your destination.

(featured above are bikes and samples of some of their uses)

Usually, this idea works out for the best and the day goes on as planned but on rare occasions, this turns out to be the stuff of nightmares.
It begins when while on the bike; a truck suddenly manifests from nowhere, the bike man reacts illogically and runs into something (most likely a car, tree or signpost) from there, things generally begin to go wrong.
When this happens, you develop amazing mutant abilities that keep you airborne for all of 3 seconds.
If after your “flight” you are able to land on your feet unscratched then, it is no big deal.
If you however land on parts of your body not adapted for flight, you will end up breaking joints, limbs and fleshy parts.

The thing with freak accidents is that we pray it never happens to us but unlike regular accidents where you can avoid (like not deliberately sticking wet fingers into an electric outlet, dating a Nollywood icon or consuming expired food and drink)
freak accidents happen when we least expect and are ill-equipped to handle.

This entry is supposed to be about the life and times of cattle and the men who attend to them.
From their conception, growth and sacrifice to the different forms in which they appear on food menu’s after they cease to be alive.

When I want beef, I look for an honest looking butcher and buy the needed quantity from him. I imagined the same would happen when I wanted an interview.
I was wrong.
It turns out there is a strong solid society of butchers which consists of a head, secretaries, other executives and loyal members.
If I were inspired, I would call it a cult of sorts where men are born to slaughter cows, rams and goats while defaulters are stripped of their knives.
On that faithful day, after being passed from one butcher to the other, I was finally brought to the public relations officer who spoke to me as he cut up chunks of beef into smaller pieces with a dangerously sharpened knife without missing a beat.
We began the interview but because of my timing, I was given a later date and time for its conclusion.

Thinking of the date I was given brings a sultry satisfied grin to my face.

It was for earlier this week, I missed it!

Given another chance and a choice to choose between the interview and *cough-cough* I bet you know which I would go for ;)