My mother always said, 'The day I fall asleep in the backseat, that's the day you know you're a good driver.' Now, I don't know how it happened for you, but my elder brother asked me one day, 'Do you want to learn how to drive?' It was the Christmas season and, at the time, we always spent it at 'home' (interpretation: the village). So, he said if I could move Dad's Beatle round without knocking down any of his palm trees, that was all to it. I can't remember how old I was, but definitely not old enough to salivate at the prospects of gripping a steering wheel.
But, it came, inevitably – that testosterone-induced desire TO DRIVE. So, my other older brother got into the passenger's seat beside me and pointed things out in rapid succession – brake, clutch, accelerator. But, every time I wanted to change gears, no matter how fast the car was going, I would look down at the round knob of the gear stick, because the manufacturers had helpfully drawn a tiny schematic there to let you know which gear went where. So, my brother, not famous for his long fuse, hissed in disgust – 'You want to kill me, abi?' - and told me to let him out.
And I almost did (kill someone, that is). Sometimes, you just cannot get through the thick skull of a teenager. I HAD to conquer that thing. So, I grovelled for the chance to dash to Ajuwon to grind tomatoes, just so I could DRIVE. It was mostly private, empty roads there and back, so someone shrugged and said – 'Okay'. First time alone in a 504; I was so cautious a Kenyan could have gone past me. But it still happened; when I was coming uphill, the nylon bag of freshly ground tomatoes un-tied itself. I should have stopped, packed, THEN turned to try and scoop tomato slurry back into nylon bag. But I skipped the first two steps. Honestly, I looked back up only because I heard a thud. Two people (no lie) dropped off my windscreen - a woman and a small child.
Speed kills! But, like I told you, my heart was racing faster than that car at the moment of impact. So, the only person that ended up getting hurt that day was me, because the husband of that woman and the father of that child (thankfully for me, one and the same person) was sitting just by the accident (being at his duty post as a diligent mai-guard); he pulled me out through the car window and slapped glasses and (I swear) a few pimples off my face. But! This is not about that story. It's about how I was traumatized by the images of human bodies on my windscreen, and kept seeing them even after I shut my eyes. But my mother – still don't know where she found the nerves – put the keys in my hand again that night and said, 'Drive me home.'
And she (like we like to say in these parts) took it upon herself to teach me right, clutching her handbag on her knees in the backseat and screaming – 'Slow down!' – even when I wasn't actually moving. I remember snapping once (Leave me alone, mummy!) and just flooring it, and she retorting in a voice that was suddenly very, very calm – 'Go on and kill us both. At least, me, I've lived a little.' Another time, in the middle of Idumota, she leaned forward and said softly, 'Careful now. This is Lagos. If you knock anyone down here, they will burn you, me and this car right here.'
So it came to be, a while later, on the road to the village – me and my younger ones were in the back of an old Station Wagon when I noticed that the one-eyed driver was sleeping. So, I reached out, held the steering firmly, then whispered in his ear, 'Nna…' And when he opened his good eye, I told him (just as gently) 'Please, I beg you in the name of God, clear'. Then I took a deep breath, slid into the driver's seat, and took the wheels myself. That was how I drove us all the rest of the way - all the way from Enugu to 'home'. And when my dad heard, he turned round and gave me a quick look, then grunted and said, 'I can see you're a man now.'
But, to be honest, it wasn't that day, really. It was some time before; to be precise, the day I had looked over my shoulder – a bit surprised at how silent it was in the back – and found my mother, side head against the rolled up window, sleeping. THAT was the day I glanced in the rear-view mirror...and smiled to myself.
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