This week the FCT minister banned motorcyle taxis from the capital.
I woke up last Sunday to a different Abuja.
We don’t have Okadas in London. There is one company that uses a small fleet of motorbikes to ferry high-flying executives from the city to London’s airports in 25 minutes guaranteed. But the mayor’s office won’t allow motorcycle taxis that you can hail from the street. They’re too dangerous, he says. The powerful licensed taxi association, worried about protecting its profits, wouldn’t stand for it either. But also I’m not convinced there would be any demand for motorcycle taxis in London. People generally see riding a motorbike as a very risky activity, best left to those people doctors call “walking organ donors”.
But then, we have a functioning public transport system which, although Londoners love to complain bitterly about it, is so much part of our life that even last year’s terrorist attacks cannot dissuade millions of people from using it.
My first ride on an okada was during the census. It was late in the evening and I was returning to my hotel from a bar. Benjamin waved down the man, and before I could mutter “is this wise?” I was on and away.
Days later another colleague had a horrific accident on an okada. When I saw his scarred face I vowed not to travel on one again.
Of course I did. The next journey was a short hop from Wuse II to Maitama, it was early evening on a Friday, there was virtually no traffic around.
Those ten minutes were the closest I have ever come to flying. The Jincheng carved out arcing turns, unimpeded by the pedantic machinations of traffic lights, stop signs or other cars. As we flicked into Shehu Shagari Way and felt the bike pick up speed on the down slope, I had to resist the temptation to stretch out my arms and become a dog-fighting, World War One fighter ace, zooming into the inky clouds on a sortie.
A friend at the British High Commission says the first thing he does when he gets back from a trip home is jump on an okada and go to Mama Cass.
“Once you get on the bike, stop at a traffic light, get some odd looks and feel the heat pumping up from the tarmac, you really know you’re back,” he said.
That’s all over now.
Last Saturday I took my last okada in the capital. He shot down Herbert Macaulay, whizzing over the stinking creek at the heart of Abuja. I looked out east and saw the sun setting into the layers of smoky haze hanging over the city. The evening glow in Nigeria is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and as the sun set on Abuja -and the okada- I knew the best way to experience it is on the back of a motorbike with the wind rushing through my hair.
Of course it’s insanely dangerous. I’m amazed by the risks people take to get around. As a tribute to the versatility of this form of transport, here is a list of some of the things I’ve seen on the back of an okada: A man holding a three foot high sheet of glass, upright, that would have cut him in half if it broke; a whole family, with the baby perched on the petrol tank holding daddy’s handlebars; two nuns, riding side-saddle; a man holding nine huge plastic jerry-cans; seven crates of beer bottles (full); a mechanic holding two truck tyres, one on each knee; 12 to 15 live chickens, strung over the handlebars and pillion seat, craning their necks to eye the drivers around them; four bags of cement; people carrying 25-ft lengths of steel rebar, aluminium tubes, or ladders; over six months I’ve seen tons of firewood, yams, whole plantain trees and sacks of onions on the backs of bikes; a mattress -on the passenger’s head; a whole suburb fleeing the bulldozers; and a woman with a skirt so short she was a danger to traffic.
The drivers too take amazing risks, not only with how close they get to other vehicles capable of squashing them and their little machines. Why would people take these risks? Unlike in London, they have few other choices. Okadas are a symptom of the economic hardship Nigerians face, and perhaps everyone would like to see a Nigeria that didn’t need them.
I woke up on Sunday to a city suddenly without the chaotic crowd of okadas, without seeing them sleeping under bridges, washing their bikes in puddles, weaving in front of lorries and shouting “I FIRE YOU!” at drivers who cut them up, and yet I have a nagging feeling this is not the end of it.
I woke up last Sunday to a different Abuja.We don’t have Okadas in London. There is one company that uses a small fleet of motorbikes to ferry high-flying executives from the city to London’s airports in 25 minutes guaranteed. But the mayor’s office won’t allow motorcycle taxis that you can hail from the street. They’re too dangerous, he says. The powerful licensed taxi association, worried about protecting its profits, wouldn’t stand for it either. But also I’m not convinced there would be any demand for motorcycle taxis in London. People generally see riding a motorbike as a very risky activity, best left to those people doctors call “walking organ donors”.
But then, we have a functioning public transport system which, although Londoners love to complain bitterly about it, is so much part of our life that even last year’s terrorist attacks cannot dissuade millions of people from using it.
My first ride on an okada was during the census. It was late in the evening and I was returning to my hotel from a bar. Benjamin waved down the man, and before I could mutter “is this wise?” I was on and away.
Days later another colleague had a horrific accident on an okada. When I saw his scarred face I vowed not to travel on one again.
Of course I did. The next journey was a short hop from Wuse II to Maitama, it was early evening on a Friday, there was virtually no traffic around.
Those ten minutes were the closest I have ever come to flying. The Jincheng carved out arcing turns, unimpeded by the pedantic machinations of traffic lights, stop signs or other cars. As we flicked into Shehu Shagari Way and felt the bike pick up speed on the down slope, I had to resist the temptation to stretch out my arms and become a dog-fighting, World War One fighter ace, zooming into the inky clouds on a sortie.
A friend at the British High Commission says the first thing he does when he gets back from a trip home is jump on an okada and go to Mama Cass.
“Once you get on the bike, stop at a traffic light, get some odd looks and feel the heat pumping up from the tarmac, you really know you’re back,” he said.
That’s all over now.
Last Saturday I took my last okada in the capital. He shot down Herbert Macaulay, whizzing over the stinking creek at the heart of Abuja. I looked out east and saw the sun setting into the layers of smoky haze hanging over the city. The evening glow in Nigeria is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and as the sun set on Abuja -and the okada- I knew the best way to experience it is on the back of a motorbike with the wind rushing through my hair.
Of course it’s insanely dangerous. I’m amazed by the risks people take to get around. As a tribute to the versatility of this form of transport, here is a list of some of the things I’ve seen on the back of an okada: A man holding a three foot high sheet of glass, upright, that would have cut him in half if it broke; a whole family, with the baby perched on the petrol tank holding daddy’s handlebars; two nuns, riding side-saddle; a man holding nine huge plastic jerry-cans; seven crates of beer bottles (full); a mechanic holding two truck tyres, one on each knee; 12 to 15 live chickens, strung over the handlebars and pillion seat, craning their necks to eye the drivers around them; four bags of cement; people carrying 25-ft lengths of steel rebar, aluminium tubes, or ladders; over six months I’ve seen tons of firewood, yams, whole plantain trees and sacks of onions on the backs of bikes; a mattress -on the passenger’s head; a whole suburb fleeing the bulldozers; and a woman with a skirt so short she was a danger to traffic.
The drivers too take amazing risks, not only with how close they get to other vehicles capable of squashing them and their little machines. Why would people take these risks? Unlike in London, they have few other choices. Okadas are a symptom of the economic hardship Nigerians face, and perhaps everyone would like to see a Nigeria that didn’t need them.
I woke up on Sunday to a city suddenly without the chaotic crowd of okadas, without seeing them sleeping under bridges, washing their bikes in puddles, weaving in front of lorries and shouting “I FIRE YOU!” at drivers who cut them up, and yet I have a nagging feeling this is not the end of it.
posted by Andrew Walker at 2:59 pm
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