Tuesday, 27 November 2012

Danfo semantics: The Cause and The Curse




You hear cases of people killing themselves, countries annihilating countries, years and years of this family and that family feuding, that person not talking to this person and the likes of it. It turns out sometimes (when you finally trace the origin of dissent) that it was just a simple case of - He didn’t understand, she didn’t understand, he thought, she thought - a little misunderstanding.
Here’s a scenario – it’s not unusual for a danfo conductor and his passenger to be in a war of words and insults. In fact it’s a novelty for one to experience an entire bus trip without a single exchange of heated words. So when I enter the bus and the woman in the front seat beside the driver, stretches back her hand and starts to hit the conductor, I think nothing of it.
 The woman continues to hit the conductor nonstop - give me my change she screams and punctuates every scream with a slap at the conductors back. She’s throwing the punches from the front seat and since the conductor is hanging from the door (nothing unusual there) I’m surprised at the accuracy of her punch.
All the while, the conductor is receiving the punches like a champ (Mohammed Ali style) - all smiles and no concern until the man to my left intercedes.
 Madam abeg no hit am again, but conductor you know you are the cause of this thing.
 It is then the conductors’ voice comes back from the sabbatical leave it had been on all the while he was being hit. He points to the man angrily and says “Oga” I no be curse na you be curse, you and your children and your children’s children, all of una be curse!
The man’s jaw drops in astonishment, “ahn ahn? What I’m I saying, what are you saying? I said you’re the cause of this woman’s anger you’re telling me I’m a curse. Rubbish illiterate man!”
I no be illiterate, the conductor retorts furiously.  As if to validate his point, he switches to English- I went to school, its condition that put me here.
Hey! The man exclaims and then proceeds to clap his hands together and fold them under his arms in typical Nigerian fashion – See this obtuse man o? He asks no one in particular.
Oga na you be confused man, the conductor shoots back.
 Ahn ahn? E ma gba mi! (People save me) what has confused got to do with obtuse? It is not your fault conductor; it is me who poked my nose in your matter.
 Na you know wetin do your nose and nevertheless na u still be curse no be me , in fact as you talk so, generational curse dey follow you from village and e no go stop.
There’s nothing wrong with my nose the man exclaims, slapping his palm on his forehead in frustration.
At the “nevertheless”, I start to pay attention, I mean nevertheless is not an “everyday word” in a typical Nigerian sentence if you get my drift? Everyday words are words like ehn, ehen, shebi, sha, abi. So “Nevertheless” from a bus conductor is very surprising and confusing.
Surprising because his a bus conductor (not looking down on anybody) and Confusing because if you can think to say “Nevertheless” in your sentence then you should know that Cause and Curse are two different words entirely (although in pronunciation the difference is not a stretch) Obtuse and Confuse are worlds apart and poking your nose in somebody’s matter does not depict a problem with the anatomy of that persons nose.
But I digress. Back to the punching angry woman and her conductor punching bag.  The initial “star” of the “boxing match” has been long forgotten and come to take her place is the “Poke noser”, but it’s no longer a boxing match but a verbal match
By now, the other passengers have started contributing their voices. Everybody is talking at once so there’s not much sense to be made out of the cacophony of voices.
An elderly woman t tugs the conductors’ shirt to catch his attention. She explains to him that the “Poke noser” did not abuse him at any point before their exchange. She proceeds to tell him that what the “Pokenoser” meant was that, if the conductor had given the “Puncher” her change, the puncher would not have resulted to punching him.
Another man chimes in; Conductor because you no give that woman her change, na why the woman dey punch you, so na wetin cause am... no be say I swear for you o, na because of wetin u do the woman, you understand abi?
…And so different variations and explanations begin to emerge, all avoiding the word “cause”.
The “Pokenoser” is shaking his head from left to right, at his wit ends and almost afraid to utter another word. I nudge him covertly and whisper to him to keep mute from then on
The conductor must be a staunch believer of “vox populi vox dei” (the voice of many is the voice of God) or the explanations of the many passengers are too much for him to start to attribute his own “Conductor Webster” dictionary meaning to. Either way he shuts up and pipes down.
Now imagine that the conductor was not a “vox populi vox dei believer” and the poke noser was a “hot headed easily offended who do you think you are talking to kind of person” it’s more likely than not that they would have come to blows, maybe even gotten into one of those “nobody comes out alive, till one of us dies fights” and then somebody does die. Would it, not have been all for nothing? a misconception of original intent.
There are times when we do A B C because we thought the other person meant   D E F. At the end of our A B C we realize that the person actually meant X Y Z, and then our A B C with all the effort put into it becomes a waste of time and energy
The question ultimately is – In situations where we don’t have a bus full of voices; explaining, pacifying and trying to make sense out of - should we not become our own voice of reason? Would our mistakes and regrets in life not be fewer then?





Monday, 26 November 2012

MaMa Lasisi


Its 7:15pm and we’re taking the usual hike to the bus stop. It’s been another hectic work day and for me the next stop is home. I wave off “Ibru the facilitator” and hug “Dotun the delegator”. Ibahim and Dotun are my colleagues at work, and yea we’re hot like that at Contagious, we’ve all got code names. Contagious is the new media firm were i work. In one word? One small happy family. Ok! i guess it’s really four words, but you get the idea.
At this juncture, we part ways. I’m waiting for the “yellow and black” bus to convey me to Bariga. That’s the route i pass to get home every day and it’s usually a while before i can get an almost empty one. Why do I always wait for an almost empty one? You will have to see me to know the answer; I’m physically incapable of “jumping danfo”, I’d most likely be broken into bits if I tried it. Besides real ladies do not “jump danfo”
I’m tapping my foot and mentally re arranging my to-do list. People are daring fate and crossing haphazardly, horns are blaring noisily and curses are flying high in the air like kites. It’s a typical “Lagos on the streets scenario”.  Nothing new there!
The bus is here, jumping time! It stops right in front of me and before the conductor can say Bariga! A gazillion people are trying to get in at once.  I’ve never really understood that part. People would rather get in first and find out where the bus is going later. I’m pushed, squeezed, squashed and then finally shoved into the bus. It’s either “get in or get out” and as i’m the last to get in, i get the seat next to the “sliding door”; the very uncomfortable one that is slid out and warrants you sitting with half your butt. Lucky for me my butt’s small enough to fit but I’m uncomfortable none the less...
Rule number “something” in everyday bus jumping routine states “if you want to seat comfortably enough, GET YOUR OWN CAR”. Telling fellow passengers to “shift or dress” is a waste of breathe. They’d probably just wiggle their butts and act like they have, when in reality they haven’t moved an inch. So I’m resigned to suffer my fate stoically.
...off we go, another bumpy ride. There is “go slow”; no surprise there, it’s the norm for Lagos traffic. By this time its night already and people are getting on and off the bus. It’s a good thing for me as I get to change seats. Now I’m seating at the back in the dark and someone else has taken the uncomfortable seat by the “sliding door”. A good look at her shows me she’s nothing like me, she doesn’t look like she’s going to be broken to bits if she jumps a bus or anything at all, plus “suffering in silence” is not in her dictionary as she soon proceeds - quite loudly to let everyone  know that she is highly uncomfortable. My code name for her is “Madam X”. She is not a staff of contagious media of course, but looking at her calls to mind something. Her backside looks like mine when you multiply it by twenty (by the way i do that in my dreams; imagine my butt’s twenty times its actual size).
Madam  X begins to yell at the people on her row to “shift”, and when they act like they’ve got “palmoil cottonwool” in their ears, she starts to yell at the conductor to tell the people on her row to “dress”. The conductor disregards her; at this point he’s more interested in collecting his money so he asks her for her fare, which is twenty naira. Madam X angrily shoves ten naira at him and says vehemently in Yoruba “how can you ask me to pay twenty naira when am sitting with half my bum”?(in Yoruba of course). Here take ten naira for one bum!
 The conductor responds in the same tone “i don’t care if you’re not sitting at all you’re in the bus so pay me my money.
As expected they start to curse each other until they are breathless. Then its recess time, either they’ve run out of insults or thinking up new ones.....
For a while all is quiet, till we get to a bus stop and some of the passengers alight. Now there’s space in the bus again and the conductor suggests that “Madam X” move to the front seat so that she can be comfortable enough to want to pay the required twenty naira. She obliges the conductor and moves forward; suddenly everyone bursts into laughter, unrestrained guffaws of laughter! It’s at this point everyone sees what i had seen from my back seat in the dark; and it dawns on them why the woman had been so uncomfortable in her seat...


Madam X was actually Mama Lasisi! She had a BUTT as big as the comic character Mama Lasisi at the back page of The Punch newspaper.