This story was conceived as both a joke and an experiment in classy language because form is temporary and class is permanent, or some crackpot shit like that. Please be classy as you enjoy.

We emerge from Talabi Street, where Dele Giwa was bombed to bits, & proceeded through Adeniyi Jones to Obafemi Awolowo Way to Alausa from where we joined the stream proceeding out of Lagos via the Lagos-Ibadan Express.

We are decked sorta like formal to medium formal, on account of Police get jumpy about folks too dressed up or too dressed down. There’s a few glasses in the car – Police see your eyes are behind spectacles and they take you for an idiot, the harmless sort. Driver dude proceeds at a nice steady 80 on account of we can’t afford no stoppages. I take interest in muthafuckin’ motile geography, on account of I liked atlases and shit back in school, and it’s clearly better than listening to goddamned Six-Pack in front running his goddamned football commentary. Who gives the slightest fuck what some Pinocchio by name Arsene Wenger thinks? Not me.

Senator Kalejaiye was this sort of guy, suave, flamboyant and all, three-term-and-counting Senator and poster boy for the All Democratic Movement, long for ADM. He crooned the right lyrics in the right tune and the folks on the streets picked up the song. I watched him on TV once, he coulda had me if I was the sort that could be had, talking about capitalism tempered with democratic socialism or some nutjob ism like that and how the country would only change “if there was the recognition of the duty of government to place the commonwealth paramount over the individual.” His words, not mine. My PS3 console came on soon after, seeing as I had no time for any sort of faffing-about, political or nay.

We wheeze past teeming millions, past fucking yellow-and-blacks, past parks peopled only by plants and the odd bird, past Godforsaken churches left and right, past private universities and shit. We’re past the faux urbanity of Ibafo, past Lobaru or Loburo or whatever the fucking signboard said and we’re at Sagamu where we veer off into the Sagamu-Benin Express. Here’s where the real drudgery is. Soon we’re past the backyard of Ikenne, where you may have heard Awolowo hails from. If you haven’t, well jog on. We roll into Odogbolu where that whining pussy of an Army General hails from. How does a fucking General prostrate for a bloody Major? We don’t know when we’re past Ososa but we know when we reach Ijebu Ode on account of the drudgery is broken for a few minutes.  Nobody I give two shits about hails from there. Ijebu-Ife, Ijebu-Mushin, Aiye, Ayebandele are a compact stretch of forest broken only by the odd billboard and signpost. Right about now, Fattie in the backseat with me snoring hideous symphonies. His face itches for a nice whack from my palms but I resist. The muthafucka would strangle me.

Whisper had it in high places that Senator Kalejaiye was gearing to run for top honcho. The man knew how to work a crowd and had become more vocal over recent months. Polity was agog over how his Constituency was as good as gold and there was a newspaper or two mulling the potential benefits of an Kalejaiye presidency.

You know it’s Ore when the drudgery comes to some life and you roll past idle interstate buses and people raring to go. There are more restaurants and eateries and whatnots than people in Ore it seems. Read somewhere that back in ’67 the Biafrans had blitzed their through way to Ore before thanks but no thanks they were turned back. In about a couple of branch-offs we appear presto on Ore-Okitipupa Road. Six-Pack is rapping Pac’s Hit ‘Em Up by now and Driver dude a.k.a Mad Mike is bobbing his head like he’s mad, and what do you know, in the utter wilderness of a  village called Aye, a sweet piece of ass in police uniform sashays to the middle of the road and points where we should park our sorry asses. I give Mad Mike and Six Pack hell; don’t attract fucking attention and there they were acting like they were in a fucking Davido video. I somehow manage to wonder who might be fucking all that ass and scan her fingers for bondage. None. She requests the regular; Mad Mike hands it over. One potbelly saunters over and looks the 2001 Camry over. “We’re press men on assignment,” Fattie chips in with his American accent ice cool and shit whilst pointing at the pile of magazines just behind the gear box before Pot Belly can decide how long he’s gonna keep us and how much he was gonna charge us for wasting our time. We look like proper idiot journalists too, with Mad Mike and Fattie in their spectacles and Six Pack and I in our ten yards of shirt tucked into ten yards of pants.

The whispers in high places made its way to low places by way of the jittery establishment worried about the cart getting upset and stuff. I don’t particularly give a fuck which way or not any political episode plays out; Six Pack, Mad Mike and Fattie sure as hell don’t either. Pockets is what it is over here.

We breeze past a couple of backward villages peopled by palm trees whose names I can’t make out on account of there’s an oil palm processing malarkey in Okitipupa proper. By now, Mad Mike is cracking Fattie up while Six Pack is hunched over his goddamned Samsung maybe reading football stories or watching porn. “This way to Ilutuntun,” this signboard reads. Another one reads: “The Lions Club welcome you to Okitipupa.” There’s a fucked up painting on this one which the painter reckons must be a lion’s head. Looks like an amused Medusa to me. And Medusa was hardly ever amused if them Greek shit was anything to go by.

They say on account of his fine looks and his money Senator Kalejaiye has his pick of chicks. “Monumental philanderer,” is what this Special Adviser in charge of Special Duties guy to some unnamed oga-at-the-top had said to me about the senator. Special Duties. Man, some folks have a knack for knocking words up to look harmless. We get told of this hotel where this guy fucks the brains from the heads of scores of bimbos. The Senator reckons his activities are top-secret and shit but Big Brother has his ways. We’re to link up with Big Brother’s representative at location.

There’s this menacing statue of a fella wielding a cutlass this roundabout. We’re in Okitipupa proper. The life here is a mere trickle compared to the flood back in Lagos. Heck, it aint even no trickle; it’s a drops every five minutes. We’ve encountered the grand total of ten cars on the roads so far. Okay, maybe fifteen. I could probably live in this type place when I’m about a hundred years. We take a few turns and go past a surprisingly swanky restaurant called De-Dons, some Ondo State University of Technology and in seconds we cross over to Igbokoda. We go past scores of construction work on houses, before we branch off the main road a junction. Some benevolent god had smiled on the inhabitants of this sleepy backside of nowhere. We lodge at the Waterside Hotel, paradise in the wild.

We get out our luggage from a clever disguise of a compartment behind the back seat. Some thorough nut job of a policeman may have found it. It’s a few minutes down six pm. We settle down and shit and strategize. At about 9pm, Big Brother’s representative, Sneaky Muthafucka is what I name him, informs us Tango was in the net. Six Pack is the lookout guy. He’ll activate the gang when he eyeballs Tango. Tango is destined for the black black waters of the Igbokoda waterside from where he can run for president against fancy named plankton in the guts of fish.



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