Diasporas living outside their home country will
agree with me that there is this special
unexplainable feeling we have when we return
home on holidays, it is doubled especially when
we have done well for ourselves far away from
home and return to see that our folks back home
, aren’t doing badly as well. I wished I could say
so of Nigeria when I returned home for this
passed year’s Christmas holiday.



The hiked taxi fare of #2,000(from around #300
which it used to be) from Festac main gate to
mile2 just within Lagos that greeted me, had me
foaming in mouth throughout my ride in the old
rickety car which had conveyed me till I got to
the park where I got another shocker of my life.



I was heading to warri from Lagos, I rushed to
the park in a bid to book early enough so I could
join the first bus leaving for warri only for me to
ask cost of the fare and got a reply that had me
looking at my behind thinking the ticket agent
was referring to the guy standing behind me who
was going to Abuja but had intentionally stood
in the wrong line since the Abuja queue was
moving in snail speed.
“Six thousand naira from Lagos to warri?” I
heard myself screaming, “na plane I dey book?” I
went on, hoping other supposed travelers would
join me in my protest but to my utmost surprise,
I was the only soldier in my battalion holding a
loaded gun. Without much ado, I shielded my
sword and paid the outrageous fare of (#6,000
from #1,500) without further protest.


Before we started off on our journey, I queried
the manager of the bus company on the reason
for the hiked fare and his reply was fuel was
now scarce in the country and very costly when
one managed to find some. I was surprised at
the complaints of other passengers about the
hiked fare during our journey; didn’t they hear
me when I was protesting? Why didn’t they
speak up then? It is no secret that Nigerians are
known widely as a people who smile while
suffering. We’ve become so accustomed to living
under harsh conditions and bad governance that
we now take unfair conditions like everyday
normal event without making a single complain,
after all, na 9ja we dey.


I was happy to get home as usual; I was happy
to see my friends and family after a long time
but was I happy to know life has been a tale of
from fry pan to fire for them since I left? Was I
happy to hear that the reason I could see a
constant light for a mere 2hours was because it
was Christmas day and that every other day,
they had to run generators nearly 24hours to go
about their businesses or watch their favorite TV
programs when they had return home from
work? Of course not, I wasn’t.


After a week at home, the cloud had begun to
clear from my eyes. I had begun to see the hot
tears which they had so well hidden behind their
fake smiles begging to fall off from their watery
eyes. whenever I went out to visit a friend or
meet up with any appointment that required me
to leave the comfort of my father’s little house
that was located far inside a residential layout, I
begun to notice the long congested stagnant
traffic that formed daily in the major roads in the
state as a result of the poor state of the roads
which had gotten tired of begging for proper
maintenance and repair since they were
constructed.


Whenever I tried to slide into my study to get
into my writing mood, I often lost my cool as the
loud snores from the generators of our tenants
and other close by houses never allowed me
concentrate. From dawn till dusk nearly every
day, there was power outage hence the cries of
generators were the alarm that woke me from
my slumbers, the ringtone when I had a call, the
voice on the phone when I answered my calls,
the music I listened to whenever I turn on my
home theatre, the voices I heard inside my head
and my companion whenever I was bored.


I begun to notice the reduced size of the chunk
of meats that accompanied my daily meals and
the less vegetables and salads that awaited me
in the freezer as a result of less supply since
fuel price hiked, the reason my aunt gave when
she once returned from the market. “Three seeds
of tomatoes is now two hundred naira” she went
on to complain.


Once, I nearly walked into a fight between two
cults. My friend once called me from an eastern
state to narrate how he had luckily escaped a
stampede by pro-biafra supporters during one of
their mass protests through a market.
I could not visit my friends or even go out on
business appointments without having to think
of the outrageous long tight traffic jams I would
have to endure as a result of the poor state of
the roads.


I could not afford to consume my favorite
vegetables and salads in the right quantity and
as frequent as I once enjoyed them without my
conscience judging me or even try to buy them
without letting myself listen to the usual
incessant complains of the traders about how
their transport fares to the farms had sky
rocketed hence the reason vegetables are now
costly.


I could not walk out of the safety of my father’s
house without having to call my friends living
outside of my area to ask them of the security
situations in their areas before I visited, for fear
of being cut up in middle of cult fights, mass
protests or any mishap.


I could not watch my favorite TV programs or
even enjoy a quiet time at home without having
to listen to the incessant blaring sounds of
generators as a result of the constant light outs.


In no time, I had begun to get tired of home. I
had lost the joy and excitement I had before I
had returned home for the holiday. I soon started
to beg minutes to become hours, hours to
become days and days to become weeks so my
holiday can be over so I could run away from the
home I had so much missed but have to run
away from as a result of the many unfavorable
conditions that had constantly soured my stay.




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