The disappearing Package

One of the things that people returning to Lagos inevitably comment on is how much the city has changed.

For example, many people are amazed with how much more organised the city currently is. Much talk is also made of the BRT (Bus Rapid Transit) revolution and the reduction of Area boys. Regular prayers are made that the planted flowers intended on beautifying the state might yet make it through five bloom cycles.

Not every change is welcomed though. For example, most of the conversations involving the LASTMA (Lagos State Traffic Management Authority) are predominantly laced with expletives.

In addressing the area of change, one of my favourite subjects is the evolution of bus stories. Sitting in a bus on my way to work, I am amazed at the different stories which have at some point gripped the city. Take the interesting tale of the disappearing package.

Back then it was a common story. A man, lets call him Jeff, would be standing on the streets waiting for a bus. His mind would be filled with the urgencies of the day ahead of him and the many unpaid bills which he had failed to attend too. All this would quickly be pushed aside once the bus arrived.

On the streets of Lagos, getting into a bus involves a refined art of running in sync with the bus's motion, throwing out an arm and getting a firm grip, and then, without losing a hold on your belongings you would swing yourself into the bus and quickly find a wooden seat for your use midst transit. The driver never once would stop.' According to the stories, it was usually during this intricate process that "it" would inevitably happen. Midway during his entry swing someone would tap him and the spell would be cast. Jeff would leave the roads of Lagos with his manhood hanging between his legs and land on the seat suddenly a eunuch or something along those lines. That was how the stories went.

I never got to see any of these incidences happen. But the people who told me the stories would swear to me that the person who told them swore to them that they individual who leaked the story swore it was the truth. With so much celestial endorsement going on, the story appeared to be nothing but true.

As the stories spread so also did the attitudes of Lagos men. Suddenly it became fashionably to walk on the streets whilst holding your crotch. True, it did make getting into the bus a lot more difficult. Swinging with one hand, for one, was a lot more complicated. The process was made even more complicated because bus drivers tended to now drive with one hand managing the wheel and gear system whilst the other held a firm grip on their package.

Whether the stories were true was never confirmed. But there were incidences were men were suddenly pounced on and beaten severely because they had-so it was claimed-tried to steal another man's package. I am not sure if these captured men were found with duffel bags containing various sizes and shades of the male sex package. Such details were never really revealed.

Eventually the stories died down and men returned to, once again, walking the streets without looking like they were protecting a football free kick. People began to joke about the stories but not too openly. Bus drivers took three years before they stopped grabbing their crotch in public-a cautious lot those ones.

These days, bus rides are normally filled with less incredible stories. Attention is paid on the current events gripping the nation. There is the question of whether Nigeria deserves to go for the World cup or not. Most people discuss how Michael Jackson really died because he bleached his skin one time too many.

Every now and then, there is the odd question of which Nigerian actress is the most popular and the most talented. Whatever the topic might be, the light gossip makes riding in a Lagos bus a more pleasurable experience.

Understandably though, Jeff probably would not agree.