A robbery
I suppose I should have known better than to stick around in the crowd after the new president left Eagle Square. I think it was during the pushing and shoving that erupted when former president Obasanjo walked to his car that my pocket was picked.
After he finished his speech, Yar'Adua returned inside the bullet proof walls of the VIP pavilion for a final round of handshakes, and the crowd pushed forward. Where there had been green jacketed press photographers jostling for a snap, suddenly there were hundreds of young men clamouring for a glimpse.
Where had all these guys come from? Outside the stands, filled with party bigwigs and ladies of substance, behind the chain link fence, thousands of people were pressing on the gates. The police couldn't keep them out, a score of officers were braced against it and it inched open bit by bit.
The floodgates must have snapped open. People were hanging off the balustrades of the podium, shoved tight like sardines in between it and the stands. The mounted guards who escorted the president into the square had to push their way into the crowd. Their scrawny horses nervously hopped from one hoof to the other, spooked by the people around them. The guards, perched on top of their jittery rides, peeked out from under the white peaked helmets, tassels twitching, trying to stay in formation. They were followed by the state limousine, inching its way into the throng, pushing its way bit by bit toward the red carpet. Somewhere guards were holding back the masses from closing in on the new man in power. The crowd swayed and rocked forth and back. People were stepping on my toes, then scrabbling on my shins, as they fought to keep their feet. As the guards pushed the weight of people back it fell on them again, twice as heavy like a breaking wave. I had to hold my camera above my head to desperately try and get a shot of the new president as he emerged and made his way to the waiting car. All I could see was his hat.
After the vice president left the pavilion, the minders flooded in through the bullet proof doors. The stairs were crammed with burley men in suits. During the ceremony they had been lined up on the other side of the glass. I saw one Chinese bodyguard who looked as if he'd stepped out of a kung fu film, wearing a crisp black suit and shades, pencil tie, and slowly cooling himself with a large Chinese fan. Now they were falling over themselves to get in and by their bosses' side. A large Russian type was pulling other guards by the shoulder to make way for him, and a fat Nigerian policeman got into an argument with another body guard, they pulled at each other and the policeman toppled over and fell down the stairs.
Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd, Baba had appeared. He put his hands aloft to recognise the appreciation and there were instantly hundreds of arms in the air returning the jubilation. All through the ceremony he looked tired, sad, even lonely, weighed down with solemnity, standing out on the podium watching the marching troops go by. He looked like an old bloodhound, down in the mouth. But now, as if feeding off the proximity of his supporters, he bounded down the stairs, his guards barely able to keep up. He disappeared into the huddled mass and the crowd went wild. A man nearby looked up at me and said "He is Nigeria's strongman, our strongman, we love him." Shouts went up "Strongman! Strongman!"
I stuck my hand in my pocket and tried to pull out my recorder to interview him, but it wasn't there. My clothes were soaked through with sweat and my pocket seemed to be in a knot. The man stood and regarded me as I went from pocket to pocket, but it wasn't there. I wondered if it had been him who had taken it. "Have you lost something?" he said. I turned on my heel and walked out of the crowd. Standing in the heat going through my pockets for the third time I felt that mixture of anger and shame that follows a robbery. How did I let this happen? I tried to push it to the back of my mind and went to find my colleagues. As we walked to the car one of them said: "You heard him talking about all the progress Nigeria has made? There are many thieves here, and many people who have little money for maize, and then wait to see if God will bring them anything else, if he does not, they go without. That man who stole your midget will probably sell it for as little as N500."
I suppose I should have known better than to stick around in the crowd after the new president left Eagle Square. I think it was during the pushing and shoving that erupted when former president Obasanjo walked to his car that my pocket was picked.
After he finished his speech, Yar'Adua returned inside the bullet proof walls of the VIP pavilion for a final round of handshakes, and the crowd pushed forward. Where there had been green jacketed press photographers jostling for a snap, suddenly there were hundreds of young men clamouring for a glimpse.
Where had all these guys come from? Outside the stands, filled with party bigwigs and ladies of substance, behind the chain link fence, thousands of people were pressing on the gates. The police couldn't keep them out, a score of officers were braced against it and it inched open bit by bit.
The floodgates must have snapped open. People were hanging off the balustrades of the podium, shoved tight like sardines in between it and the stands. The mounted guards who escorted the president into the square had to push their way into the crowd. Their scrawny horses nervously hopped from one hoof to the other, spooked by the people around them. The guards, perched on top of their jittery rides, peeked out from under the white peaked helmets, tassels twitching, trying to stay in formation. They were followed by the state limousine, inching its way into the throng, pushing its way bit by bit toward the red carpet. Somewhere guards were holding back the masses from closing in on the new man in power. The crowd swayed and rocked forth and back. People were stepping on my toes, then scrabbling on my shins, as they fought to keep their feet. As the guards pushed the weight of people back it fell on them again, twice as heavy like a breaking wave. I had to hold my camera above my head to desperately try and get a shot of the new president as he emerged and made his way to the waiting car. All I could see was his hat.
After the vice president left the pavilion, the minders flooded in through the bullet proof doors. The stairs were crammed with burley men in suits. During the ceremony they had been lined up on the other side of the glass. I saw one Chinese bodyguard who looked as if he'd stepped out of a kung fu film, wearing a crisp black suit and shades, pencil tie, and slowly cooling himself with a large Chinese fan. Now they were falling over themselves to get in and by their bosses' side. A large Russian type was pulling other guards by the shoulder to make way for him, and a fat Nigerian policeman got into an argument with another body guard, they pulled at each other and the policeman toppled over and fell down the stairs.
Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd, Baba had appeared. He put his hands aloft to recognise the appreciation and there were instantly hundreds of arms in the air returning the jubilation. All through the ceremony he looked tired, sad, even lonely, weighed down with solemnity, standing out on the podium watching the marching troops go by. He looked like an old bloodhound, down in the mouth. But now, as if feeding off the proximity of his supporters, he bounded down the stairs, his guards barely able to keep up. He disappeared into the huddled mass and the crowd went wild. A man nearby looked up at me and said "He is Nigeria's strongman, our strongman, we love him." Shouts went up "Strongman! Strongman!"
I stuck my hand in my pocket and tried to pull out my recorder to interview him, but it wasn't there. My clothes were soaked through with sweat and my pocket seemed to be in a knot. The man stood and regarded me as I went from pocket to pocket, but it wasn't there. I wondered if it had been him who had taken it. "Have you lost something?" he said. I turned on my heel and walked out of the crowd. Standing in the heat going through my pockets for the third time I felt that mixture of anger and shame that follows a robbery. How did I let this happen? I tried to push it to the back of my mind and went to find my colleagues. As we walked to the car one of them said: "You heard him talking about all the progress Nigeria has made? There are many thieves here, and many people who have little money for maize, and then wait to see if God will bring them anything else, if he does not, they go without. That man who stole your midget will probably sell it for as little as N500."
Labels: pickpokets, poverty, President Yar'adua Inaguration
posted by Andrew Walker at 11:00 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home