Features
Oluwadunsin Deinde-Sanya: On Days I Choose Not to See
One day, I found myself walking briskly from Marina to the CMS ferry terminal. It was past 5 pm and I had just finished working at an event. The terminal would close soon, so I thought, should I take an Uber? It sounded silly, Uber on top wetin I fit trek? I laughed at how I think of booking a ride every time I need to leave the house. Was it not me that was moving from Ikorodu to Lekki years ago and jumping buses at Ketu? But that’s by the way. Besides, it’s been long I ate street food, so I wanted to buy meat pie that had no meat in it, konkere doughnut that drew like rubber when you took a bite and those 50 Naira cakes that had more sugar than butter. It is 150 now sha.
As I walked past the roundabout, the underbridge, and into the highway, I crossed the road hurriedly to the pedestrian pathway. The sight that welcomed me was nothing to write home about: faeces of all shapes, sizes and textures. I was used to seeing puddles of urine along CMS and men facing the wall, dangling their penises, spraying the walls and floor with their body waste. But nothing prepared me for the freshness of the faeces I saw – watery, hard, brown, black… okay, I won’t go into details. But, no, I couldn’t use the pedestrian pathway and so I walked on the BRT lane, nose-covered, run-walking to get to the terminal quickly and looking behind me at intervals to check if a bus was coming. I remember hissing while muttering under my breath, “This is why I always book a ride.”
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There are a few luxuries that are of importance to me; booking a ride is one of them. Every month, I set aside money for transportation, I have a driver who takes me wherever I want to go and who I pay per trip. I’d rather not buy clothes or shoes but pay for a ride. It is intentional; it is like my tiny little bubble, my way of shielding myself from the stench of poverty that fills Lagos’s air. And every time I decide not to call my driver and enter Danfo, I am again reminded of why I made that decision in the first place. When I step out of the little world I have built for myself, poverty slaps me in the face – either in human form, in the faeces that decorate the streets of Lagos or the urine that fills its potholes. A frail-looking woman would walk up to me, “My daughter, please, I haven’t eaten in 2 days;” a man would drag my dress from behind, hunched and shrunken, “omo mi, I’m hungry.” Children would tug at your skirt, people’s eyes are red, tired workers are trekking and angry, the fuel attendant is hissing while filling the tank, or the gateman is hailing me, “Sister, happy weekend o” and I know what he’s saying. Poverty, anger, fear, and frustration are all I see, so I run back into my bubble. It is not that it is 100% good in there but, at least, I can breathe better.
Bad things thrive because good people unlook
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I judged a friend of mine many years ago. The bus fare to my home had been increased by 50 Naira for no reason at all, and people were protesting by refusing to board. I was just coming back from work and was knackered. I told my friend what was happening over the phone and he said, “Wo, just pay the 50 Naira extra and leave them. If they like, they should not enter.” I was bemused, how can you not care? How do you not see that these people cannot afford this 50 Naira you think so little of? The reason why Nigerians are being cheated, I thought, is because people who can afford things don’t care about those who cannot. So they unlook and do not join in certain protests because they are not affected.
But I am beginning to win in this unlooking game too, and I am judging myself now. You know, times when things are happening in your surrounding, and you’re not aware because you decided you don’t want to know? I am there now. I am now one of those people in Uber, window wound up, headphones plugged in so I don’t see or hear my surroundings. The only thing left is for me to buy a car with tinted windows. I have even limited my screen (and social media) time kojumaribi (so my eyes won’t see evil). One time, I didn’t know our ex-president addressed the country, and when I knew, I didn’t listen or read what he said. And when I saw news of people beheaded in one Northern state, fatigue washed over me again and I closed Twitter.
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These days, I am consistently caught between trying to protect my mental health by not knowing or pretending to not know, and if it means I am a bad person or being tone deaf.
Every Nigerian who is deaf and blind to the plight of others have an excuse – protecting their mental health like me; seizing opportunities even in anomalies, like those advising people to buy and sell bicycles in light of the fuel hike; waiting for Saul before Paul; telling people to upskill as the economy tanks, and so on. We are simply being tone deaf, because these things we shut our eyes and ears to, or try to score cheap points around are people’s reality – as in, they are breathing and living in it, waking up every day in despair and anguish. Somehow, we need each other to get out of this mess we have been consistently and cruelly plunged into in the past 10 years. But I wonder how we can strike the balance between being involved and being protected. At least, for me, I wonder how I can care and not lose my head at the same time.
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