The road from Abuja to Lagos is littered with the carcasses of motor vehicles.
Cars; brittle frames, covered in the bright orange blooms of oxidization; busses, ripped open like tin cans; trucks, overturned, loads spilled, axles twisted.
I saw one patch of grass at the side of the road that had obviously been burned in a savage fire. The only thing left was the front axle of the truck, and twelve patches of orange-black dust where the tyres used to be.
Everything that was salvageable had been taken from the less serious wrecks, or broken down cars. Doors, windows, bumpers stripped off -even tyres seized for re-sale. How many accidents had those tyres been in? I imagined tyres being recycled, wreck after wreck after wreck until they were a shredded, rubbery mass.
Some carcasses had been covered by creeping plants, lianas, beautiful white and purple lilies and razorlike bush grass. Nature was taking the mangled metal back into her. Gradually they would be eaten by the bush, and the mark of burning torment, where god knows how many people died in a burning fireball, would disappear.
In England loved ones of people who die in a car accident tape a bouquet of flowers to a lamp post near the site of the accident. They rot slowly away leaving only the harsh railings and uniformity of “urban clearway”.
On a trip to Kogi state the other day, I saw these hulks every fifty yards and thought it very likely that we would see some sort of accident. On the way back we did. A tanker-trailer was attempting some crazy manoeuvre on the thin road. The wheels on one side slid off the tarmac and the tanker disappeared from view, rolling down a ravine that must have been hundreds of feet deep.
The back of the tanker had begun to slip first. As if he had rested the whole truck against the bush, as one might rest a bicycle against a wall. But the flimsy grass bent, and there was nothing behind it but a huge drop.
“What is this guy doing?” said one of my companions. Before he could finish shouts went up. “He just disappeared!” said another, holding her hand over her mouth, “I saw his face, the driver’s face.”
I had seen it too. The driver felt the wheels leave the road and turned to try and open the cab door. But he didn’t have enough time. Even though it seemed to be turning over so slowly, the hands didn’t act fast enough against gravity. His hands moved to the window, and he looked out.
His mouth was twisted open in panic. His teeth bared and eyes squinted. He looked like a baby in the second before crying.
It was several seconds before we heard the tanker hit the ground.
And then we did something extraordinary. We stopped. Not only did we stop, but a friend in the car behind us ran to the side of the ravine to look over. For all we knew that tanker contained thousands of gallons of petrol, or even kerosene. If it ruptured anyone standing where the truck went over would be vaporised in the explosion.
I wanted to leave, to drive away. But our driver was helping the conductors of the truck who had not been in the cab (someone later said they had been directing the driver in a suicidal three-point-turn) and we couldn’t go. All I could do was sit and watch the crowd forming around us.
What were these people doing here? Bus after bus stopped and its passengers ran down to the lip of the ravine. What were they doing here, these women with babies tied to their back? These men reaching for their camera phones? It certainly wasn’t to help the driver.
Most of these people could not possibly have seen the original incident. They were stopping simply because other people had stopped. The crowd was building.
How long would it be before the driver of a speeding bus came past and, taking his eye off the road to rubberneck the scene, ploughed into the crowd? Inside the hot car sweat trickled down my forhead into my eye. When would we get going? Could we please get going? There was nothing to be done, I stayed quiet.
I have to admit, curiosity is a powerful urge, I had to fight it myself. Curiosity is, after all, my business. At first I wanted to see what had happened, but then I was revolted by the crowd doing just that. My friend who had foolishly run to the lip of the ravine said later: “I just had to see… I couldn’t stop myself.” After we got moving again a car passed us with the driver in, heading to hospital. For all that curiosity no one among the crowd will ever know for certain if he survived.