Sokoto by Road

by Kelvin Kellman (Nigeria)

Making a local connection Nigeria

Sokoto by Road On the behest of a friend who promised to host me, I checked the map of Nigeria for the position of Sokoto online. From the map, the daunting distance and number of states between Lagos and Sokoto naturally suggests I flies in lieu of travelling by road. But like every other person both insolvent and drunk on wanderlust, I elected to go by road, making sure to clinch a window seat as soon as I paid for my ticket. Where was the fun in travelling without sights? A luxury that the luxury of flight cannot provide. The bus left Ido Motor Park at dusk, at about 7 P.M, after the driver first drove into a gas station to refill. Typical of cheap travels in Nigeria, we were packed full like sardines, we could perceive each other’s musk, could nearly hear each other breathing, and I could perceive the awful odours from bad breaths and smelly armpits. The bus, which was a myriad of people, creed and culture, united by the commonality of travel, swayed on in full speed. The driver who seemed oddly enthused hurled the bus forward in daring acceleration like a demon out of hell, so that certain people had to raise their voice in protest. But at that time of day the road was unencumbered, so he throttled on, ignoring the diatribe of disgruntled passengers. By the time we entered Oyo about three hours later, more than half of the passengers were asleep, so that very few of us knew when we exited Oyo into Kwara, and from Kwara we entered Jebba, which bestrode Niger and Kwara states. We were entering northern states, which made my excitement surge. I had seen and interacted with northerners all my life but never had the occasion to be in the north. Unbeknownst to me however, this was where my giddiness as regards Sokoto by road will last. And then we entered Niger proper. It was in the young hours of morning already. The driver stopped at a junction, asked us to come down and stretch (an exercise we would do three more times). As soon as we parked, sellers, small children most of, crammed our vehicles with their wares, which were mostly edibles. By a corner, a mai sai, plied his trade of tea and bread. Those who fancied it patronized him, and the rest of us went looking for a discreet corner to empty our bladder. It was past 1 a.m., revealing that the economics here fancied night travelers a viable market. At the signal of the driver we were at once in the bus again. As if he wanted us to brace for it by stopping for snacking, most of the rest of the journey was a torment. The roads riddled with pot holes made the driver swerve left and right entering and exiting these clay holes in the middle of the bitumen stretch. By this time, with all the bumping and colliding, we were all now awake. While most preoccupied themselves with cursing at the government for the poor state of roads, others like me close to the window, held on to one support or the other to protect our heads from the constant banging against the glass and surrounding metal frame. We continued like this, stopping once in Kebbi for break, for the next five hours. By daybreak we were in Jega—the commercial hub that separated Sokoto from Kebbi. Here, the driver stopped again, allowing Muslims to observe their solat. Afterwards, the road onwards to Sokoto was smooth enough. Smooth as it was, it could not compensate for the doleful hours of torture we’d had to endure. As we drove by, I saw the spectrum of civilization that Sokoto embodied. On the one hand a Mercedes Benz would drive past, and then a Toyota; while on the other, a motorcycle and men in donkeys and camels. In Nigeria we have our north/south divide, but I stayed in Sokoto beyond the estimated time because of the relative serenity and fair cost of living that it availed, even though contrariwise I suffered from the extremities of weather for which the ancient city is renowned for.