Cry, The Beloved Police!

As I neared home on my way home yesterday, traffic slowed as a result of some obstructing danfos and a policeman crossed the road not far from the vehicle I was in. Somehow my eyes were riveted to this individual and I tracked his progress across the dividing lawn and across the other side of the dual-carriageway and on into a bank building where he seemed to have some business. A huge wave of sympathy overwhelmed me indescribably. It was a feeling so unexpected that I had to consciously stop and evaluate it.

I simply felt sorry for the policeman!

He wasn’t the most disheveled one I had ever seen, far from it. Except for a cap that sat a bit askew on his head and the slightly ill–fitting trousers, he looked averagely smart in his uniform. So there was more to this. Realization dawned slowly.

Last week, the news broke all over the news about the yet-unresolved number of policemen that were literally slaughtered in an ambush, during an attempted anti-insurgency operation in some obscure part of Nasarawa state. Exaggerated or not, the casualty figure was catastrophic. The lives of scores of husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, nephews, cousins (I would not like to imagine there were mothers, sisters or aunties in that lot) – breadwinners all, were obliterated in an instant. Like animals! Yesterday, during a report on the incident, some pictures of the gory remains were telecast and in a newspaper publication, the number of slain men stood at 103!

Trapped in a BRT. Help! 2

STUCK IN TIME

The time was 6.15 on that cool Monday morning. I was standing on a long queue at the BRT terminal eagerly awaiting the bus. I had been there for at least twenty minutes. Someone behind me but within hearing distance, muttered aloud, 'Abi dis people don go strike?' I replied with the airs of superior knowledge, 'Don't worry. They will come, even though they might be late.' As the words left my mouth, a corner of my mind snorted in derision. 'Dey dere dey hope. You  go old for here.'
I scowled back at the voice and glanced back down the road, hoping to catch a glimpse in the dim light, of the neon LAMATA lights that would be the first announcement of the bus's approach. There was nothing. I sighed and leaned my back against the guard rail and adjusted my feet to bear my weight in that position.

6.25am
I glanced at the illuminated face of my wristwatch for the umpteenth time wondering what I had gotten myself into. I knew that if I didn't leave that spot soon, I would most definitely be  late to work. What with the special Monday morning traffic on my route! I had to make a decision soon. Just across the road at that moment, a vehicle slowed down and stopped. The driver stuck his head out his window and called 'Ikeja! Ikeja!!'. The words actually had not left his mouth when several 'smart' individuals male and female alike, leaped the guard rails and sprinted heedlessly, across the road in the direction of the vehicle. Gratefully, traffic was light at that time or perhaps there might have been several casualties.
I was stuck at a point in the queue where I couldn't so nimbly exit and join the race. I was certain that I was much physically fitter than most of the other people making their way to the vehicle. But I assumed the calm demeanour of 'the one who knows' and waited. Besides, I encouraged myself, the bus will soon arrive. The vehicle across the road quickly filled up and left. As as I tracked its progress into the gloom of the predawn, I also hoped that the LAMATA neon would appear on the horizon at that moment.

6.36am
I was getting jittery now. My legs didn't feel so sure of themselves anymore and I was certain that barring a miracle, I was going to be late. I glanced finally down the road and decided. 'I can't wait here anymore. I'm leaving!'

This scenario is only a shade of the daily experience of patrons of the BRT service at least in my environment. Some waiting times are in hours. I've waited that long myself on several occasions. The queues stretch for miles. The commuters get disgruntled and agitated that they are running late for appointments or work resumption times. Tempers flare.
When If the buses do arrive, the staff are unapologetic and often openly discourteous when challenged about their inefficiency. I mean, it might not be much, but a good textbook apology would usually serve to soothe frayed nerves.
The BRT system was probably implemented without a time schedule, to make their movements flexible and adapt it to the vagaries of our society. However, would it be too much to ask that the buses are available in places and at times, when there is an observably regular, high volume of traffic to be moved?
I wonder how many times passengers have been disappointed or frustrated by the bus service. Still the indomitable Nigerian optimism continues to populate the long queues day after day. How much abuse can one take?

Like I said in  Trapped in a BRT. Help! it baffles me how the government would allow such a worthy enterprise to be mismanaged and this, not for want of evidence of these lapses requiring attention or a dearth of ideas of courses of action to take. What do the supervisors oversee? Are they concerned about preserving the integrity of their organization and making recommendations for the improvement of their service efficiency? 

Questions, questions, questions? No one's answering.