Home Away from Home with Abi Adeboyejo
Email: abi.adeboyejo@yahoo.com Twitter: @abihafh
You know you are a good driver when you can outmanoeuvre a bus at Ojuelegba and shout down any misbehaving okada rider. While I wasn’t quite there with the former, I was well versed with the latter. I could abuse an okada rider in quite a few languages and I had even given one a slap on the back when he calmly told me (while going at around 50km an hour) that he was feeling quite happy because it was a Friday and he just finished a nice bottle of ‘Chelsea’ (all spoken in Ijebu).
I thought my driving was quite good when I travelled to the United Kingdom. I was rather proud that I never actually brought down our security guard’s house anytime I drove my sister’s treasured Hyundai through the gates to our compound.
During my first few years in the UK I didn’t consider driving. I was too fascinated with the underground and surface trains. My favourite station was the North Greenwich in London because it was all grey and steely, very minimalist and masculine in a way only train stations can be. I loved the sliding doors, the elevators and the Millennium Dome just outside the station. But my love abruptly ended after the terrorist bombings in London in 2005. I realised that I could try other ways of getting about but quickly eliminated riding a bicycle for fear that my ‘behind’ would bend the wheels. I considered travelling by bus but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t sleep off during merry-go-round journeys and get robbed by yobs.
I decided to find a way of getting a British Driver’s License so I could drive. I must confess that I was sorely tempted to take what I thought was the easy route. A friend of a friend assured me she could get me a driver’s license from Nigeria and when I pointed out that I hadn’t taken a test before I left home, she said the only test required was how much money I was willing to pay to get the license. I wasn’t comfortable with this and was even accused of thinking like an ‘oyinbo’. However, before I could make a decision on the matter, I was reliably told by my other half that such a license was not valid in the UK and an international license was only valid for one year from the date of first arrival in the UK.
I found myself a driving instructor and decided to book a ‘block of lessons’ as they call it. Before this, I passed a theory test which was to check my knowledge of road signs, speed limits, driving conditions and road hazards. To be honest, I hardly took any of the information in. I just crammed the facts (a skill I had perfected in my days at Ogun State Univeristy). I reproduced the information at the test centre and got 35 marks out of 35. I was so proud; you could actually see the colours of my feathers. I proudly told my driving instructor, Sab, that I was a very good driver and I would soon show him all the skills I had learned from Nigeria.
On our first practical lesson I complained bitterly to Sab about how expensive the lessons were. By my reckoning, I only needed four to five lessons before hitting the motorways and showing ‘dem’ how it was done. Sab asked me to drive him round an estate so that he could assess my skills. I started the car and revved the engine once and then three more times for good measure. I released the handbrake very roughly and it made a loud screech and I hit the accelerator. The car lurched forward and I began my drive round the estate. I glanced at my mirrors once a while and swerved slightly from left to right, avoiding imaginary portholes and okadas. I was in on fire now. In my head I was on Ikorodu Road, braking suddenly to avoid colliding with the minibus pulling out from a side street. I was spewing out abuse at the careless mother whose child was about to cross the street without looking. I could feel the hot Lagos wind on my face….
“For goodness sake, slow down!” shouted Sab.
Sab had gone bright red and his eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. I hit the brakes and the car came to a halt with a sharp jolt. Sab was swung forward as the car stopped and he looked at me rather incredulously. He can’t believe how good my driving is, I thought.
“Are you taking any sort of medication?” He asked, panting as if he had been running.
“No. Why?” I asked confidently.
“Have you been convicted of a driving offence?” he asked again, ignoring my question. He was holding on to the dashboard as if he was afraid the car would start moving again.
The penny finally dropped. I realised he was criticising my driving.
“No” I answered in a low voice, a bit more subdued.
He then went on to list the multitude of errors I had made, the most serious being my total ignorance of speed limits. I sort of assumed that they didn’t matter much. My proud peacock feathers fell off one by one. I was totally humiliated by the time Sab explained how dangerous my driving was. He totally told me off and was shouting by the time he finished. Did I mention that Sab was probably 10 years younger than I am? No respect for his elders!
My other half offered to give me diving lessons. It seemed like a very good idea but after we had several fights as about how long reversing round a corner should take and after being told to “keep quiet and listen to instructions!” I decided I preferred Sab’s insults. At least he insulted me in English and the insults didn’t sound so bad. Hint: Bad idea to get hubby to teach his wife how to drive.
Eventually, after three blocks of driving lessons (that is about 30 lessons), all paid for by the grumbling husband and five attempts at the practical driving test, I passed. I have been cured of my bad habits like riding the clutch, sounding the horn at the slightest provocation and lowering my window to shout abuse at bad drivers. I do realise that my central mirror has other functions apart from helping me apply my lipstick correctly and lane discipline helps me avoid causing pileups on motorways.
I have now been driving in the UK for over eight years and it still amazes me how people obey the road rules and everyone responds to road directions and safety instructions in exactly the same way. For example, everyone knows that a flashing red cross means a lane is closed and not that the TV talent show ‘X Factor’ is on TV. Everyone slows down and exit the lane. No one keeps driving on the lane or ignores the sign. No one slows down to shout abuse at those exiting the lane for being ‘mumus’.
I am sadly aware that I will probably never be able to cope with driving in Lagos again but I am also grateful that I am now a safer driver. It will be a great achievement if our government enforces driving schemes and tests to help drivers in Nigeria to achieve the kind of competence that will make Nigerian drivers able to drive safely anywhere in the world.
