I am in the backseat of a Volkswagen wagon on the highway from Zungeru. I just opened my last bag of chips and plugged my earphones to Kid Kudi singing The Prayer. The road is proving unsurprisingly thrilling and subtly revealing the reasons behind its pull on dedicated and professional travelers. It is very easy to get sucked into the love of the wind and occasional dust in your face. The freedom of being in a place where you are nobody. The glimmer in the eyes of the locals when they witness your astonishment at simple elements of their daily lives. They also respond with hostility when you try to objectify them, as in their physical bodies. They don't mind you taking pictures of their landscape or the livestock but you don't just take a picture of Almajiri boys hurdled by the roadside on the highway to Kontagora. They will throw rocks at you. Can't have everything right?
Whenever I use the public transport system in this town I always get a story. It's because the public transportation allows one to interact with the society and feel it's pulse in a way that is almost impossible from the comfort of a private vehicle. So yesterday I got off a bus at Julius Berger round about at around 5pm, rush hour. Naturally there was a fair amount of traffic, pedestrian and vehicular. I had just arrived in the city from my outpost in Gwagwalada and I was hurrying to get in a cab and out of the blistering sun. That was when I saw something that made me stop. There was a crippled man along the sidewalk. His limbs were shrunk and shriveled and he could only manage to drag his malnourished body along the curb using his forearm while accepting alms from motorists and passersby who threw their loose change in his direction. He looked very exhausted and he had his hands full but every time a note was thrown out of a moving car or dropped by a pedestrian he would ...







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