By Moyo Okediji
Before you blame Nigerian politicians, put yourself in their position.
After graduating in 1977, and after completing my National Service, I was eligible for a car loan like every Nigerian university graduate at that time.
I qualified for a 3,600 naira loan.
There were lots of cars to choose from within that price range: Toyota, Datsun, Peugeot—lots of them.
It all depended on the type of girlfriend or boyfriend you wanted.
The “posher” your car, the higher you scaled up in terms of the boyfriend or girlfriend you attracted. It was a game toward getting married.
Some cars were a bit out of reach: Volvo, Citroen, Mercedes-Benz, and a few exotic cars whose names I didn’t even know.
I was not looking for a girlfriend or to get married.
I already knew that I was married to Art—a fiercely jealous wife with little tolerance for cheating.
When you are courting Art, or married to Art, and you start cheating with men and women, you would wake up one day and she is no longer in your house, together with all her stuff.
If you’re lucky, you may get her to return, but you would have to beg and crawl on the floor until she is convinced you wouldn’t cheat again.
I therefore didn’t even take the full amount of 3,600 naira to which I was eligible. I took only 1,800 naira.
Art didn’t care if you had no car.
She wouldn’t leave you if you slept under the bridge. She would stay with you even if you were starving.
You didn’t need to impress her with material things—unlike the members of your opposite sex, male or female.
I therefore chose to buy a used Volkswagen Beetle, model 1200.
Model 1200 was a step below model 1500.
At that time, there were Volkswagen assembly plants in Nigeria—they brought the parts from abroad and assembled them in Nigeria, making the vehicle affordable.
With the 3,600 naira to which I was eligible, I could easily have bought a brand-new Volkswagen Beetle model 1500.
But who was I trying to impress? Art? She didn’t care if I didn’t have a shirt on my back.
But I needed a “jalopy” to move from point A to B, so I bought this fairly abused Beetle car—cute-looking and sturdy, like the sunflowers of the hippie movement in Los Angeles.
Now, a new trade was booming alongside this sudden flooding of Nigerian roads with cars starting from the early 70s.
Car mechanics were everywhere.
They had specialties.
Most of my mates bought brand-new cars—remember, they needed to lure beautiful girlfriends and handsome boyfriends into marriage.
Part of the game was also to play class by servicing the cars at the official car depots where they bought the vehicles.
Every brand had official depots all over Nigeria. Servicing your car with them was more expensive than patronizing the local mechanic (or Meko, as we called them).
You spent the extra money not always because the official depots did a better job than the roadside Meko, but because it showed “class,” which raised your chances of landing a prime partner.
But as your car aged, and after you have landed him or her, there was no urgency to use the official depots any longer.
You went to the local Meko, which was everywhere.
There were Mekos that rivaled the official depots: good buildings—neat, organized—with the technicians solemnly wearing uniform dungarees like at the official depots.
They had good seats for their clients, including recycled seats salvaged from the back of old Mitsubishi buses, or what was called “accident cars.”
There were less high-end Mekos: just a small shed constructed with cheap lumber poles buried in the ground, covered with corrugated iron sheets—mostly recycled from buildings that were reroofed at the start of the rainy season, when landlords needed to fix roof leaks.
They constructed rough wooden benches for their clients, who were happy to find anything to rest their legs from standing while their vehicles were being fixed.
There were even less fancy Mekos who humbly set up their trade under a couple of evergreen trees. They didn’t bother to provide much of a seat for clients—a couple of tree trunks thrown around the grounds sufficed.
Their trademark, for the low-end Meko, was grimy engine oil.
Used engine oil leaked from repaired and abandoned vehicles lying around the Meko shed, turned darker than black, and covered the entire ground of the Meko workshop.
That bleak oil covers the entire body of the typical Meko, from head to toe.
No Meko looked serious or convincing without their faces blackened by engine oil.
I patronized these local Mekos, my jalopy Beetle numbered WF 9213.
Their trade depended on their reputations.
You are constantly looking for references: at beer parlors, wedding parties, workplaces, hospitals—anywhere.
“Where do you think I could find a mechanic to fix my car brake?”
Someone always has a reference.
“Have you tried Tola Wewe?” someone would suggest. “He is good with Folswagorn.”
“Where is his workshop?”
“Easy to find. You know the petrol station behind the central police station?”
“Yes. Where one woman sells boli and groundnuts?”
“Perfect. Just ask when you get to the junction. Someone will point out the direction of his workshop to you.”
You would find the Meko there as described. He would be good to you for some time.
But after a couple of months, your car would be in a sorrier state than when you went to Tola Wewe.
You continued the search.
Someone would tell you, “Try Bolaji Campbell. He’s the best. His workshop is at Abeweela. You can’t miss his signboard.”
That would work for a couple of months. But your car would start leaking engine oil uncontrollably after a few weeks with him.
“Ah, you need Kunle Filani,” a random adviser at your favorite beer and peppersoup joint would tell you. “He just arrived from Lagos….”
You would drive your jalopy there. KF would be good to your Beetle for three months, and then the car would start coughing.
That is the situation with Nigeria.
The politicians are roadside Mekos.
They could easily fix your car. But they are anxious that once your car is fixed, you won’t need their services anymore.
If the mechanics fixed your car, would they not be out of work?
So they steal the original car parts and replace them with okrika ones.
That’s the game the politicians are playing. It’s not that Nigeria is so difficult to fix.
No Boko Haram or kidnappers? Then no huge security budget.
No thief? No police budget.
Be kind, and put yourself in their shoes.
–Okediji is a Professor of Art in United States
