Stranded in Abuja I

In the past four years since graduation, I have been shuttling back and forth the major cities in the country: Port Harcourt, Enugu, Yola and lately Lagos in search of a white collar job. Everywhere I turn, the doors just seem to slam in my face without remorse. I have submitted several applications in all of these places to banks, oil and gas firms, construction companies, media houses without landing a job. The bank where I had temped as a security guard during my days in the university had promised to employ me once I completed the National Service. To be sure, my uncle was an executive director in the bank and was privy to this arrangement. However, in a sad twist of fate he was compulsorily retired during the drastic reforms that took place in the financial sector recently. After his unceremonious exit, nobody in the bank wanted to see me and my calls were not returned anymore. Those who really felt sympathy for me confessed that their hands were tied as they were not even sure of their own positions, not to talk of lending a helping hand. Leaving Port Harcourt for Lagos was even worse because I didn’t know any one who could help me get a job there and getting a basic accommodation was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I didn’t know what direction to go next until a friend with whom I shared my predicament suggested I tried my failing luck up north. She had been in Abuja for a while and said she would be on hand to receive me if and when I decided to come. Having nothing to loose and never one to shy away from a challenge, especially one with good prospects, I decided I was heading for Abuja. I got a relative to lend me some cash for transportation and off I went.  

Coming to Abuja was a wish I’ve always had as I looked forward to a city that was clean and bustling with social life around the clock; business during the day and an active night life. I also looked forward to meeting high profile politicians as well as upwardly mobile young people with whom I could network. I had high hopes that I would finally get a break from many fruitless years of searching for a job. So when our bus arrived at the Utako motor park just before dusk, I could breathe a sigh of relief that another chapter has just opened in my life. Seeing so many functional street lightings and decent police patrol vans, my immediate impression of Abuja was one of a city that was efficient and working. According to our discussion over the phone, my friend had arranged for a place where I could stay for up to six months while I searched for a job. The understanding was that within that period of time, I should have saved enough money to get my own accommodation. When she arrived at the motor park and after exchanging some warm slapstick, she got out her phone to call the guy with whom I was going to put up. Unfortunately, the young man said he was out of town that weekend and I would have to hang around until he returned. Not bad, I said to my friend but I was becoming apprehensive. My friend didn’t have a house of her own anymore since she was forcefully evicted from her place in the exclusive Maitama District. According to her story, she had been a victim of a something akin to a foreclosure. Her landlord had defaulted on the payment of a loan and the creditors had stepped in to seize the property and out she went. She had to move her belongings and other personal effects to Lugbe, a satellite town on the Abuja-Lokoja road where one of her family friends resided. My friend is a singer and an entertainer, and so spends most of her time in one studio after another. She knew a few people in the city who could help us with a place to lay my head that night and so made another call while I prayed silently for a good response. I have never had to sleep out in the open all my life, but here was destitution staring me in the face. While we waited, we strolled around the motor park and found a tea vendor popularly known as mai-shai  who also made noodles and fried egg. My friend pressured me to eat something, but food was not on my mind. Soon enough, an old Honda car pulled up to where we stood on the street-lighted Jabi road. I didn’t want to ask any questions of my friend either as a way to reveal my fears or to provoke her into changing her mind. She was all my hope in this city where her supposedly best-laid plan had begun to come apart so early on. I expected something better than this ad-hoc arrangement but decided to play along. After the introductions by my friend, she spoke to the man in her local dialect but I was sure the conversation was how he could be of help to me that night. After a few hints of hesitation, my friend succeeded in persuading him to lend a hand. He reluctantly agreed and asked us to get into the car before speeding off in the direction of Galadinmawa, a slum settlement within the FCT where the residents live daily in fear of demolition. The young man didn’t live in Galadinmawa, but said his younger siblings would accommodate me for just one night and nothing more. As if he knew what lay ahead of me in the coming days, he began to tell me his own story of how he started out without a roof over his head as a motor parts scavenger in the Mechanic Village area of Apo District. The Galadinmawa accommodation was modest with electricity and water, but I couldn’t sleep that night for obvious reasons!