I had been anticipating this trip in excess of two years. From the first day I heard that mandatory trips to neighbouring francophone countries were included in our year abroad equivalent programme, I had been wondering what the experience would be like. At the registration stand, one of the new students asked, “Is it true that we are going to travel?” She looked up, zesty, hands gesticulating, her gusto a sharp disparity to the ennui of the attendant. It was conspicuous she was expecting an affirmative response. “Yes”, he replied, “at least once in a semester”. The whole line of registrants stirred. C'est vrai, nous allons voyager au Togo et au République de Bénin.
Since the four air-conditioned ‘coaster’ buses couldn’t accommodate all the students, I had to wait for my turn. What an excruciating wait it was! At long last, I’m really going to natter with Francophiles outside the classroom. Cool! As the bus cruised through the road, Monsieur Bello, our guide, told us to take note of things that can improve the quality of life in Nigeria if we practice them. Every time I went out of my home, I couldn’t help but observe the dirty, monochrome sand on both sides of our roads. Hand-rails with peeling top coats, one-foot elevated concrete slabs that divide the ‘express’, and buildings lining the roads, all have acquired the grime. Everything on the road takes on a matching ash-like colour. But Bénin roads held a different narrative.
As we approached the border, gasps filled the vehicle. As if it was rehearsed, all of us students let out a sigh. One after the other, from the front row to the back, the shiny eyes, parted lips and slightly raised brows replicates on the face of every one passenger. As the red and white striped lever raised itself as if someone was operating it with a remote control, one by one, vehicles filed through the gates. When I finally got over the shock, I said “Obviously, this is not Nigeria”. The words were barely a whisper. The orderly manner in which the vehicles crossed the border astonished everyone. Private cars occupied the middle-left lane, commercial ones on the right, while the lanes on both extremes were meant for long vehicles and cargo buses. Each driver placed money in the boxes meant for tolls.
The clean streets, well planned transport and obedience to traffic rules implied a deliberate systemic and organised way of living - traits our country seemed to lack back then. That was over two years ago, but every time I come across someone that went on that trip; I noticed the way he/she waits at a traffic light or only cross the road at a zebra crossing. Today, I refused to throw a tiny piece of paper on the floor, but waited till I found a public trash basket! One thing was clear, the responsible social culture had imprinted itself on our hearts.
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