nearest GTB to transact. The queue from inside
the banking hall to the bank entrance was crazy.
They are customers who wanna register for their
BVN, I was told. Today is the last day for
registration, they said. I wished them well as I
aligned with the shorter queue for customers
who wanna deposit cash.
Soon, from the BVN queue, a woman began to
scream. The only thing I was able to pick from
the scream, 'se ori meji loni ni? (does he have
two heads?' I stepped out of my queue, to go
and gbeborun, to see what or who was
tormenting this woman. These GTB staff that are
always garbed in white military-like uniform; are
they drivers or security men? About three of
them had just came in with one whiteman. And
they took the whiteman straight to the lady at
the BVN desk. And the lady, too, was already
attending to the whiteman while the queue
watched, and waited, except this woman.
For a moment, I observed things. The woman
screaming against this white supremacy on the
soil of Africa is one local market woman. I
figured through her dressing, the way she tied
her purse around her waist, and when she
lamented that they left their wares to come join
this queue since they heard the exercise was
gonna close today. The men in white and the
whiteman weren't bothered by the woman's
noise. It was a case of allowing the dog bark all
it can till it can bark no more. The people on the
queue were indifferent. Some of them, their
looks carried the undertone, 'shey this woman
wey dey shout want oyinbo to join the queue ni?
Haba!'
I stepped into the circle, calming the woman.
And then, I took the fight from there. I banged
the desk twice, and instantly I got everyone's
attention. How can these men in white bring this
man in and wouldn't tell him to join the queue? I
began. Hey madam, pointing to GTB staff by the
BVN desk, you can only attend to this man when
he joins the queue! Who are you? One of the
idiots in white turned at me. I jega'ed him. I am
a ten year old customer of GTB, I said, with a
brief smile. At this point, everything stood still.
Tell this man to join the queue, I insisted. When
the whiteman's eyes met mine, I expected him to
talk. He didn't. I did the talking. Is this how you
do from where you come from, huh? I threw into
his face. Is this how you will connive with staff
to jump over the queue when at the Barclays
Bank in London or the Royal Bank in Edinburgh
or Dime Savings Bank of New York? Ha, we don't
do like that here in Nigeria o. We follow due-
process. Mafi bredi komi lomi obe je, ogbeni
oyinbo! L'Eko Ile? Oma to sori queue yen ni se.
He folded his arms and looked on imperiously.
At this point, the bank top officials had gathered
around. There were attempts to 'rescue' the
whiteman to their office upstairs. I halted it. The
moment I noticed, I told them that if they go
attend to the whiteman upstairs, I will tell
everyone on the queue to march upstairs, too.
And then, they resorted to begging. And even the
woman whose fight I had taken ownership of
started to beg me. Otito Baba Oko mi, she
pleaded. No, oyinbo MUST join the queue! Their
pleading fuelled my anger. What is that?
These things that come with neo-imperialism
sha. I've also heard about how whitemen smoke
in places marked No Smoking at the Nigerian
airport, and they go, without being penalised as
would Nigerian offenders.
