Gone Gusto

John Gusto woke up with a heart completely disenchanted with his life in the village. What used to be his meaning of the world had now shrunk to a minuscule dot which he was trapped in, momentarily. The village, with its mud-houses with brown roofs arranged in modest fashion and eroded pot-holed roads which had a habit of sinking motor-car tyres, now disgusted him. His mind was set on another place beyond his imagination. Ever since Jasper, the son of Mama Bomboy who sold roasted corn under the Iroko tree in front of the village school, had returned from London the week before, John Gusto's thirst had become insatiable. Jasper was now a new person. The same Jasper John knew as a no-do-good while growing up had become a rich man with a suit and a motorcycle. This thrilled John a lot. He had heard a little about this London from his friend, Chidi. He now believed that London was a place with tarred roads, exotic cars unlike the weary lorries which came to the village twice in a month to pick up farm produce for the city, beautiful women who talked through their noses and money which literally grew on trees. He had heard from Chidi that everyone who lived in London was rich. This made John bent on getting to Lagos.

"I will go with the lorry when it comes tomorrow," he had told Chidi the night before. "The driver will surely let me come with him."
"What are you talking about?" Chidi asked, puzzled.
"I have to get to Lagos tomorrow. I overheard Mama Bomboy talking to her son that there is a way to London from Lagos."
"What way?"
"Through something called a heloplane," John explained. "You see, there is a part of the heloplane that I can hide in that will fly me to London."
"Uh? Fly? Did you say... f-fly?" Chidi inquired, awkwardly demonstrating the flight of a bird.
"Yes. Jasper said that was how he got to London."
"But... what of your poor mother? I am certain she does not agree."
"I do not intend to inform her about it."
"You must be toying with me, Johnny. How could you not tell the only family you have in the world that you are going away forever?"
"Not forever," John snapped. "When I am rich like Jasper, I will come back with my own motorcycle too and I will give my mother a fat load of money."
"That is if she has not died of grief by then."
"You will just have to tell her about it in my absence," John pleaded. "I can not let her change my mind. I have to leave this village now that I have the chance."
"But you don't even know how to go about finding this...hello-what again?"
"Heloplane," he said. "Just let me reach Lagos first."

When the cross-eyed driver who often came to the village the first Thursday of every month drove his lorry past John's house, just before the c**k's first crow, the young teenager picked up his bag and ran after the lorry. The driver was speeding really fast, despite the fog which clouded his path. It was almost as if he had seen John and was intentionally avoiding him. John caught up with the lorry and jumped on the driver's door. He held on tight until the latter, alarmed, halted the vehicle abruptly. The driver yanked the door open and John, who had latched himself to it, fell flat on the muddy ground. He slowly lifted himself up and feebly tried to restore some dignity to his appearance by standing at akimbo.
The cross-eyed man stared at him for a minute. He then spoke with a very thick accent but for which John would not have guessed he was a Yoruba man. His English was as bad as his dental hygiene, apparently.
"What is matter for you young villager boys? You can't not keep your excited to all yourselves when after you see something fine from Lagos. Look, the farmers are waiting for me o. Go away."
"Please," John begged in Igbo, deducing that the man had to understand a little Igbo if he traded with Igbo farmers. "I want to go back to Lagos with you?"
"What?"
"This is the only hope I have of getting to Lagos this month. I just have to go."
"Why you want to go? Is there big-man job waiting for you there?" The driver quipped.
"No, I am not going to stay in Lagos."
"I am hearing you."
"I want to go to London from there."
"London! Oyibo land?"
"Yes," John said, still sticking to his Igbo.
"Where your password?"
"My what?"
"You need your password. One book like this with your photo there. Password. You can't not travel if you don't not had it."
"Password?"
"And ticket too."
The driver could see that the young restless teenager before him was getting confused. He decided to help the boy, for a price of course.
"I carry you to Lagos," he finally said. "Pay me five thousand naira."
John had never seen so many naira notes that accumulate to five thousand in his life. He knew he had to ask the man for mercy. He said, with his lower lip pushed forward in an attempt to attract pity, "I only have two thousand naira. Please take it oga."
"Two thousand is too small money for me o."
"Oga, see, I even stole this money from my mother's purse last night."
The driver hesitated for some time before replying in Igbo, "Alright then. Add two hundred to it and make it two-two."
"God bless you oga driver. I pray these your eyes that look like cockroach legs will come back to normal."
"Haba! You abuse me now?"
He had returned to his English.
"No," John interjected. "Just praying o."
"Well, let me go and meet the farmers. Wait for me here. When I'm come back, me and you both of us will be going to Lagos together."
"Why don't I follow you now?"
"Haba! Look here, don't put me in trouble o," the driver said in Igbo. "If your people see me putting you at the back of my lorry, they will think I'm trying to kidnap you. Let me come back and then I will hide you between some yam tubers."

The wait for the driver, whose name John would later find out to be Lasisi, seemed eternal. Every second John spent in the village seemed like an hour. Each breath suffocated him. The people annoyed him. To him, they now seemed too contented with the smallness of their lives. The sun that shined on the village was now too harsh for him. The water he bathed with had become too thick. The sandy ground was too coarse for his feet. The food he ate tasted sour even before touching the tip of his tongue. His soul longed for somewhere beyond the village. Anywhere was now heaven as long as he was away from here.
His ageing mother was still snoring in the comfort of her room. He thought of her. She would miss him, he knew that. He knew she would wail in his absence and tear off her clothes because her only child had left her. But he could not tell her. He feared that she would talk him into staying in the village. He could not let it happen. Chidi would tell her when he was gone, just as planned.
But there was a problem. The people in the village were starting to wake. He could see people coming out of their houses, arms stretched out lazily and streaks of dry saliva running from the tip of their mouths. There were loud yawns here and there. The scene was comical. It was as if something had brought them all out of their huts in unison. In such a small village, all houses were built close together and one could almost behold them all within an eye sight, looking from a far enough distance.
John was getting impatient. He was terrified. He envisioned his mother coming out of her room, spotting him and dragging him back into the house. He prayed silently for a supernatural intervention, not that he was a keen believer in God. On Sundays, when Father Quentin preached his predictably boring sermon, John's eyes were usually fixed on the pretty girls sitting in front with their knees glued together like siamese twins.
His woes got worse. Chidi walked up to him and said, "I hear the driver is having a little matter with the farmers."
"What matter?"
"As it happens, one of them owes him some money and refuses to pay. The others are backing the debtor up and they are accusing the driver of being inconsiderate. It might turn to a fight o."
"So, I'm not leaving this place anytime soon?"
He said this place with the same tone one would use in saying "this God-forsaken hell-hole."
"Just be hopeful," Chidi advised. "Things will get better soon."
But he was wrong. The rain poured down from the sky with such violence that everyone had to run back into their huts for shelter. The road became mushy. The lorry's tyres were definitely incapable of plying this route. John could feel his own feet being buried into the soil by the rain. So he ran back into the house with Chidi. Luckily for him, his mother was still asleep in the next room. He picked up his large Ghana-must-go bag which humbly lie next to his mat and stared into the sky through the window, fleetingly wishing the rain would cease and the sun would suddenly come up to smooth the roads. As the cold ran down his spine, he could feel his whole being gravitating towards an unseen paradise. The London of his dreams was now the destination of his fate. Every bone in his body existed just for the purpose of carrying him to that land. It did not matter how he would get there. All that mattered was that he would be on his way. He resented everything that held him back at the moment: his guilt about leaving his mother, Chidi and other friends; the rain; the troublesome farmers; the government that failed to tar the roads and the hot-headed Yoruba driver.
Like a bitter-sweet co-incidence, his mother woke up just as the driver was beginning to come into John's view with the lorry full of yam tubers, bananas and cassava.
"My son," she called out while walking towards his room.
"You have to do something," John whispered to Chidi. "Distract her for the time being."
"How can I do that?"
"Just think up an idea," John implored.
His mother’s footsteps were getting nearer and the lorry was already going past his house despite struggling with the barely motorable road. In a flash, he jumped out through the window and ran with every last ounce of strength in him. He made it to the lorry.
The vehicle then stopped. The tyres were deep into the soil. They were immobile. John could now see about thirty random people running towards him.
"John Gusto, don't leave your poor mother!"
"Wait! Let us take you back to her!"
Chidi had obviously told them, perhaps out of panic. Even his mother was now running to the lorry. She was supported by a walking stick. Before her distressed eyes could meet his, the tyres broke free and the driver zoomed out of the village.
John felt strangely at peace. Reaching London was on his mind. He was uncertain about his chances of success but he knew one thing: he was on his way. That was all that mattered.