SURVIVING THE CAPITAL

Capital Confessions — Episode 8

You Never See Wetin Go Fear You (2)

AI generated image

Welcome to Capital Confessions — my ongoing attempt to understand, survive, and make sense of what Abuja has refused to explain.

You know how you make a decision and almost immediately begin to question it — even before anything goes right or wrong?

You’d think it was more than just shawarma that landed me in this situation… but it wasn’t.

That fateful evening, after a stressful day of working on job applications and handling tasks here and there, famished and exhausted, my housemate and I started brainstorming dinner ideas.

Finally, we decided to satisfy our shawarma craving — a craving that had lasted a full week. A craving that was definitely going to put a hole in our pockets, but that, my friend, was a risk we were willing to take.

Fast forward an hour later, we got up in our shorts and headed to El-Rufai to get the dinner we so desperately wanted.

And then… it happened.

Everything happened so fast that, for a while, the only thing playing in my head was: she was hit.

An attempted hit-and-run — “attempted” only because the bike man was caught while trying to flee.

We got to the hospital. Deposits were made. Treatment began.

“I’ll be back with more cash in an hour,” he said — before leaving me at the hospital reception.

We barely left the hospital that night because… he never showed up.

With no way to reach him, we had to scrape together the bill ourselves. We were finally discharged by 12 a.m. the next day — because staying the night would have cost us three times the initial bill.

Anyway, we barely made it home that night.

The shawarma plan? Gone.

The noodles and bread that didn’t even make the list of options? Also gone — we had missed the window to get anything.

So there we were, in the dead of night — one with a head injury, both with empty stomachs.

The next day is where things got… interesting.

We retraced our steps, asked shop owners for details, but everything felt like a dead end.

That was until someone said, “Go to the community chief.”

Apparently, a bike accident in an area where bikes were banned was enough to get his attention — and a rapid response.

But first, we needed food to keep us going.

So we went home, ate, and strategized — mostly putting together what little we knew while she took her medication.

Asking for directions in Abuja can be frustrating — but that’s a topic for another day.

Exhausted from all the walking, we finally arrived… only to be told he wasn’t around. We were then directed to his second-in-command — the head of the precinct in the community.

Side note: omo, we waka that day ooo.

When we got there, we met a kind officer (the second — in — command) who listened to us, pieced things together, and asked me to accompany one of his boys to make the arrest.

I’ll skip some details and jump to when we returned to the precinct. The man was questioned — and then locked up for lying to the officer.

He was placed in a holding cell with two other guys. (One of them was apparently on colos.)

A few minutes later, a guy walked in wearing mufti, looking very angry, shouted:

“Who be the guy wey disrespect my Oga?!”

After exchanging pleasantries with the officer, he picked up a whip — made of several fan belts tied together.

At first, I thought it was just for intimidation. He’s next action told me other wise.

He poured water on the whip.

Added some foamy substance.

And said looked us dead in the eye as he said:

“If you think say you no dey fear anything, you never see wetin go make you fear.”

That’s when the real drama began.

He ordered them to lie flat on the ground.

Then he started whipping — left and right — like a man possessed.

Within seconds, there was blood with every whiplash.

It was chaos.

Beautiful chaos.

And after what must have felt like eternity for them — but was probably just five minutes — he was finally pulled away.

And just like that… my guy was ready to tell the truth.

Who knew fear could whips out honesty so quickly?

You’d think that was the peak of the drama.

It wasn’t.

Another man walked in from God-knows-where, shouting a single Yoruba sentence feeling like he was the essence of Yoruba in a place with littlte Yoruba speaker:

“Emi ni Olosho 1!”

(“I am prostitute number one.”)

Over and over again.

Slapping each of them with both hands.

Honestly… I’m convinced he didn’t know what it meant — because if he did, those words would never leave his mouth. Anyway, while he was also successfully dragged away from the precinct

Meanwhile, the guy on colos decided he had his own plans.

Escape.

First attempt: through the door. How bold.

Result: earned himself more beating.

Second attempt: through the window.

Result: caught again and even more beating.

At this point, you’d think he’d give up.

But no.

Guy I admire his persistence because My guy told himself: “I must leave today.”

Third attempt?

Successful. Worked like charm.

He escaped.

No one noticed… until someone casually asked if he had been released.

And just like that — manhunt.

The search lasted about five minutes.

Then it was called off.

Because all his belongings were still there which meant my guy go later show.

Anyway — back to why I was there.

The bike man eventually confessed and asked to call his brother to help pay for:

the hospital bills

the damaged phone

and, of course, his bail

And boy did people show up.

Plenty people.

You’d think the money would be raised quickly.

You’d be wrong.

They started with: “I’m sorry…”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Times are hard…”

At that point, it wasn’t our problem anymore.

We were exhausted. It was already dark. We had been out since the crack of dawn — and one of us was still technically a patient.

So… we settled for less. But hey, that doesn’t mean you should.

We were asked to wait about 30 minutes after his release — for safety reasons.

Now tell me why we kept looking over our shoulders the entire way home.

Especially after the officer casually mentioned:

“Just be careful… there might be retaliation.”

At that point, I had to make a decision regarding dinner.

And honestly?

I was just a tired girl who wanted shawarma.

So when we finally got home, I sat there… thinking about everything.

The chaos.

The exhaustion.

The empty stomach.

And then it hit me.

I must get my shawarma.

Inspired — perhaps by the persistence of the colos guy — I put on a baseball cap and stepped out again.

Because at this point… we must complete what we started.

The moral of the story?

I’m not entirely sure.

But I do know this:

I had the best shawarma that night.

Not because of the taste.

But because I had satisfied my craving.

If there’s anything to take from this, I think it’s safe to say this:

Abuja will take you places you never imagined you’d find yourself — good or bad.

Sometimes all in one day.

Next time, we return to something… I’m not entirely sure of yet.

But still very Abuja.

But until then, this is Capital Confessions — still learning, still adjusting.