I am an Ajebutter. Not by birth, or by formings, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic Ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He’s God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter and a funny Bri-Merican accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, Karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…
So I finally got a car.
Yes I did, and the feeling is crazy. Not only have I been able to weather the storm, abuse and duplicity of the Danfo Drivers and their conniving conductors while saving and planning for this purchase, I have been inducted into the ‘Lagos Big Boy’ elite group.
But interestingly, that group only exist in the imagination of the sayers. I googled online for Lagos Big Boys, so I can join officially make the transition into a card-carrying member and see if they will give me small loan, like N500,000 that they are not using, make I use hold body, but that failed also. There is no group on earth that bears the moniker, Lagos Big Boys Association.
Joey Akan is not a Lagos Big Boy. He is just an ordinary citizen, getting his money on the side, and trying to put together good words to earn a living.
Since I got this car, some weird 2008 model of Volkswagen Jetta, my own haff finish. First, came the colleagues. Obviously someone shared the memo that I was a chronic womaniser who spends all his days crawling from on skirt to another, one big breast to a small one, big booties, and light voices. That person lied. I swear, I’m still a virgin. My father taught e never to have anything to do with girls. Ajebutters don’t chase women. Women chase them.
So initially, all I got was this:
“Joey go finish all the girls for Lagos with this him new car”.
“Joey go begin shag premium girls.”
“Joey, your sex life will never remain the same.”
These things leave me aghast, flabbergasted, bamboozled, higi-haga-ed, Crinkum crankumed and psychologically discombombuchuculated. I know big English too.
How on earth will a new car improve the life a Lagos Ajebutter, so that my cash flow can multiply, and Lagos girls will chase me? I searched my mind, asked my pastor, my mentors, and my estate Agberos, and they couldn’t string together a good response based on logic and critical reasoning.
Have my car made me less fat and pudgy, and given me the figure of Cristiano Ronaldo? No. I still look as round and paunchy as a Nigerian Father Christmas…or is it Santa Claus?
Have my car made me more romantic and caring of women? No.
Have my car made me simply irresistible to all these thirsty Lagos girls wey no get work? No.
Can I now speak French, Spanish, and Mandarin? Extra No.
Instead, the reality of my situation has traveled away from all these assumptions. First, I bought a used special car, which comes with all its attendant faults and problems. I now have a mechanic. His name is Koffi. He is shifty, untidy, and has a weird smile of happiness every time he bills me for some repair or purchase of an expensive spare part.
“Oga this part for market na only Germany we go buy am from. Na forty touzan Naira”. He said of my compressor, oil sensor, and alternator belt.
This guy don open office for my head. So that’s where all my spare cash has gone in. In pursuit of the car owner dream. I have a dream, that one day, my car will run without fixes and tweaks, and my fuel will basically be water. I also have a dream that Amala will be banished too. That hasn’t happened.
No new woman has entered my life. Instead, I think my village people called the Lagos branch, and told them to use my car as a weapon fashioned against my life savings. So far they are winning. TB Joshua, here I come. Save me from Karishika.
See you next week jare. Peace and good hustle.