DICTATORS FALL

Olakun prepared to leave the house for work like he did every other normal day, with a strong hope for high returns. He really needed the optimism and the high returns to complete the rent, for he could not afford to be embarrassed one more time by his Landlord. Though, he ought to have developed a thick skin by now. When he started his okada, the response was unusually sharp, confirming his suspicion that the gods were in support of his pursuits. He parted his lips, revealing his spaced teeth to the heavens, and said a quick prayer. Then he set out.

Five hours later, having navigated the nooks and crannies, lengths and breadths, pathways and expressways, under the scorching merciless sun, Olakun had made a substantial part of the meager balance for his rent. He needed to make this last trip before catching his breath, and perhaps catching a bite as well. Alas, the unspeakable appeared! Fashola’s stooges! LASTMA!

Immediately, Olakun’s eyes bulged, almost popping out of their sockets. It was as though he had just come in contact with the devil. Perhaps, LASTMA had become the devil to Okada men in Lagos. The LASTMA official, acting in consonance to the perception of Olakun, walked devilishly to him, held the Okada and said, in a cracked voice, “Come down!”

“Abeg Oga,” Olakun begged. “abeg, na wetin I dey take feed my family be dis. As I dey like dis, na the balance of my house rent na im I dey find. Abeg sir…”

“Mr man, come down! Come down!” the LASTMA official shouted, pulling hard at the Okada. “Sunni!” he called to his colleague, “Come and assist me drag this thing to the office.”

Olakun begged and begged, and shed tears. A pathetic sight it was, seeing a matured man crying in public. But, he did not care. His Okada was his company. It was his livelihood, the provider of his children’s fees. It was the provider of his nutritional and social needs. His Okada was his only means of being called a man in this merciless Lagos of “no job”. O, he knelt down and begged. He lay on the ground, rolled and begged. But, the LASTMA officials, with hearts as rocks, wheeled the okada towards their office. “No waste your time,” one of them said. “This bike, na twenty thousand naira you go take bail am if e reach office.” 

Olakun, realizing he had no chance with these two, trudged along with them, calling on whoever passed by to intercede on his behalf. All pleas fell on deaf ears. When they got to the office, the lots were even more aggressive. They became impatient with his relentless pleas, punched him on the nose and pushed him out of the gate. But not without informing him that if he wanted his okada, he must get twenty thousand naira in two days or stand the risk of having his okada crushed in Oshodi. They also did not forget to remind him that over three thousand okadas were crushed the previous week, and that more would be crushed.

Olakun realized that he needed to comply. He ran to the nearest junction, in search for a bus. Instead, he got an okada. Obviously, these men continue to risk being caught. They had been left with no choice by an oppressive government. He got on the okada and off they went to his house, with wild thoughts going through his mind. When he got to his destination, he got off the bike and paid.  He turned towards his house, and then an overwhelming pang hit him hard in the heart. He realized the money he was rushing to take was meant for the rent. He realized his children’s fees were yet to be settled. He realized that his family had not eaten a decent meal for a long time. And all the problems were suddenly too much for his heart to contain. The blood rushed into his heart with an unexpected force that jacked him up high and threw him to the floor. He died.

There are numerous Olakuns in Lagos whose lives are in the hands of the Lagos state government, which continues to push them to the wall. The government has chosen to be ruthless, making abysmal policies and laws which drive the people to the extreme edges. The Tunisian people were pushed to these extremes, and it took the frustration of one young man who set himself ablaze to spark a revolution which ousted the president, Ben Ali. The revolution spread across the Arab world – Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Barrain, Syria and so on. Some of these leaders fell, and others are at the verge of falling.

Dictators fall. And Fashola can fall!