A Writer's Road To Babylon

I set out that day with one mission. It was the mission of a loner, the mission of the one who got missing in his own warren of thoughts, the thoughts connecting his past with his future. That day, I decided to continue living my life outside Babylon. I did not have any inkling that my trouser’s back pocket was Babylonian in content.

My thoughts were heavy; I felt an increase in the weight of my skull as my neck could measure. I was not bothered. My thoughts crept out in chapters, forming up plot, inventing characters, setting location and evolving a theme. I felt a thud on my chest, the inkling came, I could write a story. Perhaps, as I assumed, I might be on my way to becoming a writer. I brought out my pen and began to make a skeletal layout from the repository of my thoughts. Perhaps too, the artistic mastery might come like manna. I had hoped.

The zooming of the car jerked me off my trance. From Ibadan, Lagos was so close. I imagined the road was shortened. The driver must have taken a short cut. I struck out the first thought. The second thought looked like it. Two reasons might have made the second one real. First, if there was heavy traffic. Second, if there were armed robbers on the road. I did ask my co passengers. Their responses were unanimous. None of my reasons was right. They told me I slept off. I held my breath when I was told that my head was dangling in space for almost one hour. It must have been a serious siesta.

I reconnected back with my story almost immediately. Now I was on the road with my legs. There was no way to scribble. So I decided to write with my thoughts. One disadvantage of this was that it was volatile. I exercised my brain for about 30 minutes, ramming my thoughts into my cerebrum. My head seemed heavier. But I didn’t mind. I joined a bus to Obalende. Then I took a bike to the American Embassy. My mission that day was to get a United States visa seamlessly. I was not going to buy my way through. On the flipside, I was on another journey with my thoughts, forming up what has not happened to present them as fictive short stories. As far as I was and I’m still concerned, fictional writers are liars, reporting what has not happened, painting it real, calling it fictive story. That is the kind of writer I want to be. I want to be a liar. Is anybody thinking about Chris Abani? That is not the case here.

Hungry looking dudes besieged me as I marched carefully along the walkway to the pavilion where visa applicants with invitation letters were caged. Their genuflections made no sense to me. My gaze was fixed at the security man at the gate of the cage. I approached him. He has a stern look. But I knew what to do to soften his face, I didn’t do it. At least, it was American embassy. Such should not be encouraged. The embassy itself was a mini America. The alluring flowers, the structures, the security checks, the orderliness, you wouldn’t think you were in Nigeria. I relished the serenity. The cage was carefully designed at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Since that was my first time at the embassy, I was unconnected with the rules. It was a field day for the harsh looking dude. He said before he could allow me for a check at the inner desk, I have to keep my phones with him. I handed my three phones over to him. If that was the rule, I needed to obey, it was American Embassy. I needed to spice him up with some level of camaraderie. I winked at him, expecting his body approval for me to enter for the inner check. He wrinkled his forehead. He said with an accustomed Igbo accent, ‘‘each phone is 1000 naira. So u go pay 3000 naira’’. I hesitated; he looked away and called on the next person. He called another person, but I stood aside. His looks suggested he has forgotten my presence and it was just five minutes before the inner check would be closed for the morning invitees. At this point, I was the only one left. What I did observe was the way other invitees squeezed ‘something’ in his hand, even without anything to keep with him. They apparently understood the game play with the gate keeper. They must have been regular customers. I was not going to do the wrong thing. I don’t give bribe/kickback/tease or whatever name. I felt I should not break my pledge at the American Embassy. I looked at him with pleading posture. He sternly looked away. I had about two minutes left. I was helpless. I wrinkled my forehead; sympathy took root on my face. His look came back to my face again. This time, he gave in.

The guy at the table stretched forth his hands with no single word. I interpreted it. I handed over my invitation letter. It was not the usual official letter printed from the embassy’s website. It was an email print-out. I never knew I have gotten a special letter. With no exchange of pleasantries, even when I tried to initiate one, he rejected by his frustrated appearance, he handed over my documents to me and used his forefinger to direct me to have my seat on the queue. No single word. I murmured in response. Something got me thinking while on the queue – the frustration on the guy’s face. He checks visa documents, but his dream still eludes him. Countless travel trances must have haunted him for long. As the last person on the queue, I took time to understudy the security checks since I was a first timer. The first big error I committed was the back bag I had with me, albeit without my laptop. I had many gadgets tucked in the bag. But I was sure my modem, flash drive, USB cables and hard drive would not be show stoppers. So it was my turn. The first check was my bag. It was a unanimous decision. I was sent back to take care of my gadgets.

Many thoughts rented my heart. I thought of going back to the security dude, but killed it. In my warren of thought, I whistle jerked me off. I looked up and saw him. He waved at me to come. I stepped forward and he also moved closer. He stretched his hands for my bag. I handed it over. He became my saving grace. So I went back to the check. As a fiercely looking security woman moved the metal detector around my body, a loud noise came out from the machine. It has detected something. She instructed that I should personally search myself. I did. It was my back pocket housing it. But it was not a metallic item. My confusion doubled. I could not afford to bring the item out. Goose bumps took over my skin. I started quivering. I did not want to be perceived as if I was carrying a dangerous item. So I managed to murder my fear. She noticed my perspiration. She decided to help out. “Bring it out,” she said. I hesitated at first. I was wondering how I would explain it. How did it get to my pocket? Would she believe my true story? That I was not the author and finisher of the item? That it was the leftover of a demonstrative outreach programme? That I came directly to the embassy from a youth road walk campaign against HIV/AIDS? These questions jostled to be picked. “Bring it out,” she reiterated. Would this be the end of my visa application? What would happen to the competition I was going to the US for? How would I explain my visa failure to the organizers of the competition? Would the item cost me this whole part of my existence? “Move closer,” she instructed.

At this point, we have created a scene. Two other security men were watching, the frustrated guy was also on standby. The drama was about to explode. Perhaps, CNN would have a field day reporting a fundamentalist who was out to infiltrate the US embassy in Nigeria, the reverse of the news. Perhaps too, I would become popular; my road to stardom had come. I took a step closer to her. I looked around; it was as if the whole world was watching. What was about to be unveiled might throw the world off balance. It was a bomb that would be detonated by a microsecond. As I took another step closer to her, I looked straight. I saw the security man who was with my bag. I saw fear written boldly on his face, the fear of being arrested as an informant to the suspected terrorist. A line crept into my senses; I will be ‘deported’ from the embassy.

I was right standing before her. I suspended my hands in the air. She rolled the machine over me again, the warning sound was louder. She adjusted her hand gloves and dipped her hand into my pocket. Spectators moved closer to see what was standing in between me and New York. There was an emotional siege as she hesitated to display the item. Apprehension was high. I was waiting for the judgment. Suddenly she beamed a smile and suspended the item with the tips of the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. It was a Babylonian, GOLD CIRCLE. There was uproar of laughter. Everybody eased off the stress of the day by the drama.

During my stay in New York City, the city that never sleeps, I told this story in various programmes I attended. It elicited laughter the way it did at the embassy.