Pump Pump and the scramble for Lekki

 

 

 

Strap down your seat-belt and put your feet up - now your journey is about to start

 

Stuck in deadlock traffic on Lekki expressway one very hot weekday afternoon, I did not know when I blurted out my frustrations aloud with the retort: “Lekki really sucks!”

A danfo driver in the bus on a lane next to me heard me, and looked at me like I was delirious.

But was I?

But really why is Lekki referred to as a high-brow area? I mean, it may be a really great place in the future, but is it worth it now especially with the price of properties? I mean N50 million which equates to about 200,000 GBP or $333,000 can get you a really nice house at Riveroaks in Houston or at Finchley in London.

In Lekki, you don’t get much bang for your buck, do you? You part with the equivalent of half a million dollars to only to get a half decent 4 bedroom structure in a sand filled cess pit, which is Kalahari desert by summer and Tsunami zone during the rainy season. You fork out thousands of naira per month securing a rusty tanker to supply water to your house in an estate which itself may be flooded most of the year! How ironic.

Did I tell you that this house comes with an indoor swimming pool?

Then there is the incessant traffic. There are now officially some no-go areas for me in Lagos except on the pain of death or to make profit from business. If you are my friend and you lived at Festac, you could strike me off your guest list. Even to your wedding. I once attended an event at Festac and spent 4 hours on the return journey back. I listened to every radio station, bought Beefy sausage roll from hawkers even though I hate the product, and even gisted with a tipper driver through my window.

 Even airport runs require me to wake up very early in the morning so as to beat the early morning rush hour. The damn toll gates seem to complicate matters around 2-3 pm and create a buildup of traffic starting from Oriental Hotel all the way down Ozumba Mbadiwe.

I am now an expert at what times you should leave your house in Lekki to arrive at any scheduled appointments on time, and which periods are deadly rush hour periods. Stay away from that road between the hours of 6am and 9.30am if you are headed to Victoria Island and 3pm -9pm if you are coming back home.

And everything is damn expensive! Even buying agbado or oka, you get short-changed as the complimentary coconut is not even included!

I went to hang out with some old friends in Surulere recently, and we decided to go for a drink at a real beer palour somewhere off Babs Animashaun Road. There, I saw beer for N200 advertised on the parlor’s “Food Is Ready” menu board- wow! That amount would not get you a plastic bottle of tonic water in most places in Lekki. I quickly ordered 3 bottles of Gulder, and kept 2 under my table just in case the beer parlor’s matron changed her mind. Wow, beer way you fit buy and collect change on top. Beer way dey foam, dey vex! Damn you Lekki!

I kept smiling as I was sipping my lager, and soon the parlor matron began to look at me like I was a weirdo. Na she sabi o.

500 bucks pepper soup was like a huge tureen at a Viking feast. My spoon kept on diving into the hot peppery broth served in a huge wooden bowl in front of me and coming up with gems in the form of huge chunks of shaki, meat and liver. I couldn’t even finish the pepper-soup; and no-one ever is unable to finish their pepper-soup. Ah, the joys of mainland joints.

Is Lekki over-rated? Is living on a peninsular sand-filled to within an inch of its life, and exposed like the flat land that it is to the extreme elements of rain and sun, worth every kobo used to purchase it is exorbitant square meters? I am not sure.

We know it is becoming rather dirty, over-crowded and unsafe. There was a time when gun-toting sea bandits (aka Nigeria’s own pirates of the Caribbean’s) laid siege to water front houses in VGC and other water front estates. I know house owners living in mini-estates tucked off the Lekki expressway who refuse to paint their houses so as to deflect the prying eyes of Anini’s brethren.

But this article is not about Lekki; it could have been written about any part of Lagos or Nigeria where the hype seems to propel its status. Why is Lekki a popular place to live despite its crumbling infrastructure, poor transport networks, labyrinth of unfinished road-works, mind-numbing life-deducting traffic and the incessant flooding?

I have two words for you: Hype-thing!

I do not want to go into the whole herd-mentality thing. That was dealt with in my infamous article “The Brand-Wagon Effect.”

No, in this article I just want to talk about how the ‘hype-thing” syndrome affects both the affluent and the have-nots.

For the affluent, Lekki has become an obsession because the very, very wealthy have priced Ikoyi out of the hands of new money.

Enough of my social studies musings, while I talk about the hype-thing syndrome among the have-nots. You will begin to see an analogy between these two classes of people despite their social and class differences.

I was once on a filled bus going to Alaba International Market, when a man stood up half-way into the journey and asked for everyone’s attention. I was like, oh my daze, have I been waylaid by “one-chance bandits?”

It turned out that the chap was a drug salesman and self-appointed street pharmacist. He was advertising an aphrodisiac product called Pumpadrin which he nick-named “Pump Pump.” The product was a light brown powdery substance re-packaged in Pronto beverage plastic tin with a printed label bearing the products name and alleged ingredients.

The man claimed this product would cure any form of erectile dysfunction, performance blues, premature ejaculation or lack of sexual stamina.  The crowd of passengers looked unsure as they peeped uneasily at the product.

The man then played his ace card, as he began giving his killer sales pitch:

“This ‘Pump Pump’ na correct medicine wey de give man stamina and power. E de very easy to use. Make you mix am with hot water, cold water, for inside pap, custard, oats, golden morn, cornflakes, tea or put am like salt for inside soup, stew, indomie noodles or mix am for oil take eat yam, plaintain or rice.”

He continued with his superb sales pitch “ Una dey de drink fit mix the medicine with gin, Sapele water, ogogoro, akpeteshi, paraga, palmi, Maltina or 7-up. Make you use one teaspoon, put for inside cup early for morning. Make your wife no drink am o, or that one na wire o.”

And I was thinking, how the heck can a drug work in so many soluble forms? Silicon Valley, take note – cutting edge medicine is being developed on Maza Maza highway in Lagos-town Nigeria.

A few people at this point started stirring like they were looking convinced enough to part with dear naira for this ‘Pump Pump’ aphrodisiac.

One man put his hand up and when he had gotten the seller’s attention, he challenged with the question “Na wetin be the difference between this ya Pump Pump medicine and burantashi ( a local Northern aphrodisiac in the form of a chewing stick)?”

Annoyed by the man’s question, Mr. Pump Pump answered “Look, this medicine strong pass burantashi. In fact, na this medicine farmers de give malu (bulls) make them de give female (cow) belle.”

Pausing for effect, he continued “Na this medicine wey one 95 year old baba take wey e pregnant him wife wey don reach 70 years. Make una go Ebonyi go ask people wey see this thing happen.”

Everyone in the bus, including the conductor and driver, and except me, were all nodding their heads in agreement.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Dora, where are you?

Then the chap said “If you get marriage problem, make you de drink Pump Pump. If you be mother-in-law and your pikin wife never born, make you carry this product give them. You fit even mix am for inside soup go give am make him chop. Before you reach village, them for done call you say your daughter in law don miss im period.”

One elderly woman in the bus had heard enough and waved a N500 naira note at the man, furiously beckoning at him to sell her a tub of Pump Pump.

But the man, now enjoying himself and the attention lavished on him, waved her aside to wait, as he continued “Before, if your wife or girlfriend dey call you Johnny Boy, after you don take this Pump Pump and you meet am for night, she go de call you Mr. John.”

At this point, people started jumping all over themselves to pay the man and get their hands on some ‘Pump Pump’.

Feeling triumphant, the man started choosing who to sell to, picking buyers that wanted 2 or more articles first. Everybody in the bus, including the driver were scrambling to get at least one tub. And you can imagine people struggling to get service in an already tight bus. Sweaty armpits were leaned over noses, body odour spread like an infectious disease, arms were stretched over fellow passenger’s heads, dirty naira notes were dangled in faces, pick-pockets in the bus were enjoying the carefree situation. I felt my pocket for the bulge of my Nokia 3310 – it was still there.

Now the problem of change for buyers:

The man announced authoritatively: “I no get change again o. Make una marry una self for change o. I de owe you N200 and I de owe you N300. This na N500 – make una go find change o. I don sell finish. My shop de for Maza Maza. If you wan buy, you fit come down for the next bus-stop follow me go my shop. Make you no miss this offer. All of us go born pikin. Those of you wey no de give una wife food money, at least she no go de follow you fight for night.”

With that, the man nodded at the conductor and disembarked at the next stop with his Ghana-Must-Go medical bag empty in his hand. I peeped as he crossed the road and boarded another bus returning from whence we came.

And I was thinking to myself, this ‘Pump Pump’ which I was sure was a fake drug made up of a powdery substance that looked like saw-dust, may actually work as a placebo. It wouldn’t matter if it didn’t work; the man had made his profit and had sold units of a product he probably would never use himself.

I also was amused at how everyday people in Nigeria would believe anything if it is said consistently enough.

As I reflected on that “Pump Pump” saga, I also remembered the time I was travelling on a bus from Lagos to Owerri via a luxury bus service that rhymes with Disco. This was such a long time ago, before bus services had become a bit professionalized to suit the changing class of clientele utilizing luxury bus transport services.

Somewhere around Asaba, some light-skinned dude in his forties with freckles stepped up to the front of the bus and cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. Most passengers were sleeping or relaxing and found this a minor irritation.

The man started advertising a drug which he claimed – wait for this – would treat diabetes, arthritis, high blood pressure, anemia and a host of other ailments. The wonder drug? Drums roll……… Tic Tac! I kid you not.

I am keeping a stash in my medicine cabinet. Bye Bye doctor

Some passengers started paying for the product. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I tried to speak out, but my cousin warned me not to interfere. I did warn some passengers around me that it was a scam but they ignored me. They wanted to believe that the drug would work; and who could blame them.

Pissed off, I ordered 3 packs of Tic Tac from the man, and proceeded to open one then swallow and chew about 10 at a go. Some of the passengers sitting near me looked at me in horror with mouths open wide, like I was trying to take an over-dose!

Tic –Tac man made a killing in sales and got down when the bus got to Onitsha – how apt.

Now in present time, sitting in my car in the hot Lekki traffic, I couldn’t help but wonder how similar the ‘Pump Pump’ incident was to the scramble for Lekki. In both circumstances, people were buying into some kind of hype, but were not getting enough value for the money they spent.

Meanwhile someone somewhere was smiling to the bank at their expense.

Suddenly I had a craving for some sugar. I decided to stop by Shoprite to get some Tic-Tac…..

I sell ice in the winter, I sell fire in hell/

I am a hustler baby, I will sell water to a well/

I was born to get cake, move on and switch states/

 Jay Z (You Don’t Know, 2001)