For the boys...

Call me a heartless bastard, but living in Nigeria has made it increasingly difficult for me to give a quarter of a pig's flying excrement about the next person's financial problems. With prices at an all time high, and everyone and their mother's brother looking for a tip they don't deserve, I've pretty much had it up to here with parting with the odd N200 at intermittent intervals.

After days of shirking off door attendants, elevator attendants, security guards, policemen and area boys who apparently have deeds to the curbside on which I park my car, as well as having my eardrums besieged by ever evolving incarnations of “Anything for the boys?”, including but not limited to “May we know you? “, “Happy Weekend”, “Any bone for bingo?” and “Oga we dey ya side”, I would appreciate coming home knowing that I will not be besieged by any entities attempting to get their grubby paws on my last N200. Alas, one gets not off the hook that easily.

Upon returning to my house one fateful day, as I alight from my vehicular conveyance I am met with a "Welcome sah!" from the Meyguard - Routine enough. No signs of encroaching fiscal depreciation. I breathe a sigh of relief, give the obligatory "oga nod" and jejely continue on my way. I take a step towards the house. The meyguard takes a step toward me - and Houston, we have a problem.

"A problem?" you might ask. “What on earth could be the problem?” Well I'll tell you the problem. Critical analysis of the Nigerian situation allows me to know that processes subsequent to touchdown/arrival at my place of residence should have the following order:

Arrival --> ‘Welcome sah’ --> obligatory oga nod --> take steps towards house --> insert bodily existence into house

Once the flow becomes Arrival --> ‘Welcome sah’ --> obligatory oga nod --> take steps towards house --> meyguard takes step towards my bodily existence, then I know something is afoot.

Now this is not always a bad thing. Oft, the meyguards approach towards my earthly manifestation/bodily existence is for him to inform me of happenings of relative significance that may have occurred in my absence - delivery of diesel, perhaps even a letter arriving for me. But, sometimes, one is not so lucky. Sometimes the following words tumble out of his glottal cavity:

"emm, I don't know if you can help me..."

Anyone who knows anything about Nigeria knows that any ‘help’ one has to render is purely financial. And as I remember the Area boys/meyguards/attendants-at-places-where-attendants-shouldn’t-even-be, The first thing that runs through my head is “Oh, F*ck no, I can’t help you! Negro you know my ass just got through a day of mongoloids and homo erectuses looking for a handout and now you want me to cater to you? Do I look like Beyonce? I mean, are you not paid for doing your job? Is it not enough? Then tell the Security contractors that pay you - Because we pay them a whole lot to hire you. What are you asking me for? And how does your ass come to the house without transport money to go back? Ever heard of budgeting? Negroloid peel off!”

Now, before you judge me as possessing a heart so black it makes Wande Coal look like vanilla Ice, allow me to plead my case. I was not always this way. I once had the disposition to inquire of the domestic staff “what ails thee? “, and lend a listening ear to their woes. But times were different. Fuel was N65 per litre. I was in College and only home for vacations. I had fewer expenses and more disposable income. In a nutshell, I had not yet chopped Naija life.

Ever since my return to this god-forsaken hellhole… I mean, to this challenged nation, levels don change… and I am not talking 10/10 - Quite the opposite actually. From the moment I stepped off that airplane and into the warm, humid embrace of scorching heat cum Nigerian sweat/B.O at Murutala Mohammed airport, things started going downhill. Flip that 10 around. Na 01/10 knack my akpako.

Now, I may be eating a super-sized bole (hyperbole) with regards to describing my circumstances. It really isn’t that bad. But man can’t lie - living in Nigeria and having to spend a lot of my own money on expenses has indeed taken a toll (insert Lekki pun here) on my wallet, but more so on my mental state. In other words, hearing “anything for the boys” and its various iterations every couple of days has driven me slightly batty.

As a result, I often find myself straddling the thin line between grudgingly letting go of my last N200 and saying STFUGTFO! (note that ‘happily parting with my N200’ is not an option). If I go Lord of the Rings on my moolah and keep it tightly clasped within my fist, something in my heart feels like it is transfiguring into the wretched Gollum, only that ‘my precious’ is a N200 note that can barely purchase one packet of Digestives, as opposed to a mystical golden ring that has the ability to turn its bearer invisible and has spawned a multimillion dollar franchise. Meh! fifty Naira, hundred Naira, million Dollars. All na money. But I digress. The fact is that a part of me sorta kinda feels a bit guilty about not freeing the monies. Because naturally, I’m a caring, stand up guy!

However, the STFUGTFO part of me is not just your every day Ebenezer Scrooge. It’s quite the pragmatic practical thinker – and it’s telling me “Patty me lad, we’ve got ourselves a wee bit of a problem if ye part with yer last piece of gold.”

Yes, my more fiscally prudent alter ego is Irish. Got a problem with it? (¬_¬)

“Ye see wee lad, as ye pile up your monies, little by little, it accumulates, a bit like racks on racks on racks. And before you know it, you’ve got yerself a mighty grand pot of gold.”

Yes, my Irish alter Ego also listens to rap. But that’s beside the point. The point is that by the time I account for all the ‘things for the boys’ I’ve parted with by the end of the month, I’ll be looking at quite a tidy sum. (insert ‘Tiny drops of water making a mighty ocean’ variant here). And that’s just when dealing with the odd area boy or two. They are just after the odd N100. Domestic staff members usually have requests going into quite a few thousand. Talmabout “Abeg I fit hold three thousand?” Three thousand? Three K?! when I go KKK on you and flay your negro ass you won’t be coming up to me talkinabout 3K. mscheew!

It’s not like man cannot part with the odd Ku Klux Klan (3k). But giving a one-off favour in Nigeria can put one on an extremely slippery slope. You give people an inch and they'll take a mile. Nigerians however, will take half the circumference of the globe if you let them. First it’s transport money, then their child is sick, then their other six children come into contact with that child and get sick too. Oh, the fact that they have seven kids to take care of when they only earn so much a month? Let’s not even get into that. Because I will shoot a negro fo sho!

The real problem with household staff and their ‘can you help me’ wahala is that they’re there every time you return to your home. You just can’t escape. Sometimes I feel like the journey from the car to my doorstep is like more difficult than crossing the Mexican border. Park car, wait for meyguard to look away, wait for it, wait for it, run for your life! (Yes, It's that deep). Alas, this man can’t hide forever. Sooner or later the Mexican border patrol will spot me and release their hounds; The ferocious canine beasts will race across the arid desert, chase me down; drag me to the floor, and just as they are about to sink their teeth into my flesh they shall ask “any bone for bingo?”