Remember the ‘My-Car’ elite of Nigeria? If you read the works of Nigerian writer, Chinua Achebe, you remember these as the people who were alternatively referred to as the ‘been-to’s’. The ‘been-to’ in the Nigeria of the 1950s and the 1960s was a revered personage who had been abroad. Having been abroad itself did not mean simply having been outside your home: it meant having been to another continent, having traversed the skies, having crossed the waters, having mixed with the white race, having imbibed the white-man’s knowledge, et al. A ‘been-to’ was not an ordinary Nigerian; he was counted among the higher species who never missed a chance to say: “My car is doing well this morning!” A ‘been-to did not give an ordinary answer to an ordinary question. For instance, you’d not get a simple “Fine!” to a greeting like “How are you, sir?” When greeted like that, a “been-to” would first examine you with amazement, then look up in the sky and then around him in wonderment, before clearing his throat and answering in measured tones and carefully chosen diction. Then he’d say: “Well, well, well! If it is not jolly old boy, Amarinze the cat, in person! How am I, old chap? Well, considering the brazen winds of the winter of the country of my Alma Mater that is graced by Her Majesty’s steer-ship, which is Great Britain, and considering that I am back and bathing in the soothing sun of my African motherland, and that my good old faithful Jaguar automobile has arrived in unscathed condition, I would say I am very well, thank you.” Those good old days are gone for Nigeria, of course, just as they are gone for Rwanda. These days a university education does not guarantee you a job, and a job does not guarantee you possession of a vehicle. So, if by the stroke of luck you are the proud owner of ‘wheels’, you are paying through the nose and every time someone mentions it, you turn hostile and talk in harsh tones so that the topic is quickly dropped! You don’t want to be reminded that the neighbours came out to push the car, not because they wanted to help you start it, but rather to get rid of it, and that you could see clearly that they were praying that it would be the last time they’d have to push it, that it’d not make it back to your house! Add to that the hazards of the Rwandan roads and you will forever shelve the dreams of ever owning a car. For instance, you are cruising comfortably at 60 km an hour along the Gikondo road, when a ‘taxi-moto’ (motorcycle taxi) overtakes you on the left and quickly cuts across your path to go to the right. At your bumper, it hits a ‘taxi-vélo’ (bicycle taxi) and rider and passenger, laden with banana brew, fall right under your tyres. You desperately swerve to the left only to find rider and passenger of the ‘taxi-moto’ already lying on the kerb and just manage to bring the car to a trembling halt. Shaken, from that time you are a nuisance to other road users, because your speed can compete comfortably with that of a swift snail. A week later, you are still driving at a distressingly low speed, and so it comes as a surprise when a policeman’s shimmering sleeve waves you down. He shows you a search warrant and assures you they’ve been looking everywhere for you for the past week, and can you drive with them to the Traffic Police headquarters? Your pleas to the effect that you did not run over anybody, and that police cleared you, meet polite but stubborn indifference. Car, driving license and logbook are confiscated and not a single piece of paper is given you to acknowledge this confiscation. When you press him, the policeman explains that thirteen citizens testified against your car, even if it was in your absence, and so you had better give up and seek the assistance of your insurance people. You take heed and do exactly that, hoping the insurance people will be the wiser for it. And so, you ask, why do these ‘my-cars’ insist on owning these metallic pests and menaces? Unfortunately, the alternative is not sugar-coated either. To get to and from your office or your leaking excuse of a home, you will have to crisscross all the areas of Kigali, in a protracted struggle to get transport, and in the process will lose almost half of your working time. Due to this and pickpockets in these scattered and unguarded minibus-taxi stops, public transport has become as scary as riding on those accident-prone, but vitally useful, motorcycle taxis. The fact that going to the market, or the church, is an equally heinous exercise will make the strongest muscleman or woman invest their all in the most ramshackle of roadsters. It therefore remains incumbent upon us all to join the struggle to clean our streets so that they are driver-, rider-, commuter- and pedestrian-friendly, for we must use them all without fear or favour. The police must remain upright and clean as they have been and patrol the streets with the zeal they use to watch the cars. The motorcyclists, whom we unfortunately cannot do without, must value life more than they value their dime. And we must all be our brother’s, and sister’s, keeper by answering with fervour, the call of anyone in distress on the street. Do unto one another all this and the Government will do unto us all even more! ingina2@yahoo.co.uk
