Dugbe is used to being a commercial city that keeps nobody idle. Everyone is moving except the tall cocoa house that finds its seat at the center, the Pep Stall that hangs around shoprite and some supermarkets that are choked by different kiosks around the busy city. The road is never straight or one way road. It spreads its wings to different corners. The narrow road at the Old Post Office stretches down to connect with those leading to Ogùnpá and Apáta. Dúgbè has its life figured out. From the gigantic structure of the cocoa house, to the old anonymous statute that was created at the entrance of Alawo market and some abandoned magnificent buildings that align with the formation of Dúgbè. I wish I loved the city.
My first memory of Dúgbè was the one I never loved. I and my friend had just finished our Post UTME examination. We wanted to go home so we struggled our way out of UI and walked down to Emmanuel College to board any Ibadan micra going to Dúgbè. People filled the edges of the road as they waited for micra or napep or okada. They were either going to Dúgbè or the neighboring places. We struggled, and pushed other passengers disrupting our way and ran over any micra that stopped until we got one going our way. I remembered the scenic places at Dúgbè. Although it seemed blur, but I remembered clearly that we alighted at Shoprite. The driver promised to drop us there. We watched the scene, admired the places that keep the city busy: shoprite, pep stalls, mini supermarkets,and the well known Radio Nigeria. We scurried some drinks into our bags as we walked round the city to get a cab going to Apáta. We marched to Queen Cinema, entered Alawo market and walked past the stalls at the roadside. But we didn’t get the Apáta route. We tried again. This time we avoided the Shoprite, but the second attempt got us worried again. I wish I loved the city, but its different road networks caused us to miss our way home. We were lost, perhaps we did not know our way.
The missing keg of kerosene was my second memory of Dúgbè. I was a sophomore, and I was heading back to school. I hated carrying loads from home, but they are food items. I had no choice than to carry them. I fought getting a bus to Dúgbè Alawo, an integral part of the city. This was one of the disasters that wrinkled my day. Standing for an hour, an old bus screeched to a halt. The old white bus had that common appearance every bus in this Apáta- Dúgbè axis always had. The back of the bus had many words written in Yoruba.
“They are adages“. I thought. Rushing to read the words, I picked some pieces like , oba, anu, journey mercies, the king, blessed day. I was reading the boldly written captions when the bus conductor jumped out of the bus. I frowned.
“Na your loads be thats?” He asked, mixing up his Ibadan accent with pidgin. He had a rough appearance and his angry look made his tribal mark obvious. I really wanted to ask him the fare and give him the keg, or maybe tell him to stop shouting. But I nodded instead.
“I’ll be alighting at Dúgbè Alawo.” I snapped, perhaps it would calm him because he was just too fast.
“Ehn, ehn. No lele”. I watched him speaking as he hopped into the bus. The inward setting had many improvised things except the floor. The spoilt chair at the door side was replaced with a wooden stool. The removed rusts that guide the ceiling were replaced with sticks. The side windows were mostly replaced with a transparent nylon. Only the floor was left with no improvised scheme. It has several poked holes that forced me to stare at the road beneath. So I sat still, watching our driver’s dramas on the road. He was swearing and shouting and laughing and at times it was difficult to identify one from another.
I thought of my first day in Awo hall. When any effort to get started with school was interrupted by bullying, thievery and scolding. There was a small riot the day I walked to the dining room with my friend. Walking to a lonely corner at the end of the restaurant, I heard a rough tap on my shoulder. The touch on my shoulder awakened me and made me shiver at the screams that traveled behind me.
“Where is my money?”. The lady asked. Gradually I withdrew my hand from his grip and, in a bit, moved to the back. I was startled, trying to pick those words again.
“It seems she’s drunk”. I thought, leaning away to avoid any messy attitude from her.
“Can’t you hear me?” She grabbed my shirt and pushed me to the wall. I hated this. I hated the way she pushed me, slapped me and even promised to hit me.
“What have I done?” I cried, watching the furrows on her face. “Do I even know you?” I asked, as I stood up to pack all of my things on the floor, except my money. She had taken it. I withdrew myself to my room and crashed to the floor seeing how hard it would be to survive in Awo hall. I had nothing with me again. No foodstuff. Kerosene. No money. Nothing. The remembrance made me swallow the thought of losing my money or the keg of kerosene.
Panic crept in when the driver roughly overtook the honda driving in front of him. He made a wild move that got everyone screaming. We were at G. Allen.
“Baba, careful”. One of the women shouted in Yoruba. “At least you would let us get to Dúgbè before you start your reckless driving” The woman managed to utter the last statement before the driver interrupted.
“Baba nile lo n wawakuwa”. The driver shouted. We all thought this would end very soon, but it got alarming that everyone had to alight and trek to Alawo. The man angrily drove out of the place. He had driven beyond G. Allen and was entering Alawo when I remembered I had forgotten my change with the lanky bus conductor and my keg of kerosene in the bus. I froze.
I wished I could love the structural pattern of Dúgbè. The beautiful formation of malls and the well arranged stalls that hang around it. But the memories of my experiences in the city made me freeze most times.
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