By Desmond Ovbiagale
Recently, after a battle through morning rush hour traffic and meandering in search of a seemingly elusive address, I finally arrived at the destination for my appointment.

I was not in the most accommodating of moods; I was about 15 minutes late for my meeting with a Group CEO who I had never met, and whose goodwill I was seeking for an unsolicited proposal.

But this is Lagos, after all, so naturally there was nowhere to park. I barged into the company’s already-crowded car park more out of desperation than logical hope, which immediately attracted the attention of a security guard who sauntered over to dolefully declare the obvious — that the car park was full. After a brief and pessimistic scan of our surroundings, he finally proposed a spot along the road just outside the car park which I hurriedly manoeuvred into.

A Nigerian

But again, this is Lagos, so —my lateness notwithstanding — after emerging from my car, I cast an apprehensive eye at its position as there were no other vehicles parked in that particular fashion. I sought and extracted a few mutters of reassurance from the guard that all would be well. Not entirely convinced but in no mood to delve further, I hustled across to the entrance of the premises and was about to engage the sentries on duty when I heard an urgent summons from behind.

I turned to find the suddenly helpful security guard earnestly indicating a vacant spot inside the car park. Torn between effecting damage limitation of my prospects in the meeting I was now 20 minutes late for and proceeding straight ahead, or assuring the protection of my vehicle from overzealous road officials, I opted for the latter (given my lateness already) and turned to follow my kindly benefactor.

But just as I negotiated the vehicle into the select spot under his watchful eye and prepared to make a swift exit, his head swooped suddenly into the front window:

‘Oga … actually I have this problem. It just happened this morning. I —‘Bad move. Honestly. I mean, I’ve lived long enough in this country to know that some sort of ‘appreciation’ for his helpfulness would be an expectation upon returning from my hopefully successful appointment. But seeking to extract this upfront without even the courtesy of allowing me to first transact the business I came for (which I was impatient to get to) was a level of opportunism I had not previously encountered, quite apart from shattering any fragile hopes that perhaps, just for once, such a helpful gesture in my country might just be devoid of self-interest.

‘Small potatoes!’ some might say. ‘What’s the big deal in that?’

As an isolated incident … I agree. No big deal.

But not when the same predatory mindset continues to manifest in the most casual circumstances of our daily existence.

For example, the following day, I was out with a friend at an eatery, awaiting an order which seemed to take an eternity to come. Suddenly a customer at a nearby table exploded angrily at a waitress, reprimanding her for her rudeness. I raised knowing eyebrows at my companion, unconvinced that whatever the waitress may have said or done justified such an extravagant reaction. However, when my patience was exhausted, I went to inquire after the unfulfilled order, and after receiving an apology, the food arrived one minute later.

Okay, so perhaps customer service wasn’t exactly this outlet’s strongest point. We concluded the meal (an ingenious deception of style over substance, with a river of sauce and vegetables camouflaging a paucity of actual meat), beckoned for the bill, paid, and collected the change. Which, upon inspection, was about 500 naira short of what it should have been.

A genuine mistake, I thought. Obviously not a fortune, but still … the principle of it, right? So I beckoned to the waiter who strolled across. Pointed out the error.

‘Are you serious?’ was the young man’s lethargic muttered response as he retrieved the invoice dish, returned with the correct change and slouched away. My companion marvelled at his audacity. I marvelled at whether his casual response referred to the frivolity of his error, or to my strange insistence on receiving the actual change due. The impression created was that he had chosen to deduct his expected tip at source, rather than relying on my discretion to offer it. Unfortunately, since he had not previously troubled to offer even the facade of friendliness or helpfulness in exchange, there was no basis to do business, so we rose and exited without a backward look.

It’s not only God who loves a cheerful giver; the givers themselves would also love to give cheerfully, without a feeling of compulsion. But it increasingly seems as if the spirits that once reigned primarily at the nation’s erstwhile highway checkpoints have quietly launched a successful incursion into hearts and minds across the land without discrimination.

Call me old-fashioned or naive, but when the taxi driver in the motor-park who of his own volition greets me enthusiastically every time I huff and puff past him early in the morning, I opt to believe that he is simply extending an innocuous gesture of unconditional cordiality from one human being to another, and I accordingly always respond in kind.

Until the illusion was shattered recently when, for the first time, we encountered each other outside the context of my occasional walkathon and his first ever words to me outside the customary ‘Good Morning’ was a swift outline of the three most pressing financial issues he was facing (an ageing taxi that needed overhauling, a daughter reportedly in hospital, as well as imminent school fees).

After which he paused expectantly, waiting for me to select my preferred option for intervention.

No inquiry as to who I was, what I did, or even just my welfare in general.

It felt like I had been conned; that the several months over which we had interacted remotely but pleasantly were merely a surveillance period to gauge the ideal moment for a decisive strike. The appearance of friendliness was just that — an appearance. Nothing deeper. A handy tool to use and discard once the end objective (material acquisition) had been attained.

Which is why a social commentator once remarked on the oft-held (usually foreign) perception that Nigerians are a friendly people by retorting that there was often a hefty dose of self-interest behind our flamboyant show of camaraderie and hospitality.

Harsh or no?

Well, the next time you offer your gate pass (for those fortunate enough to own cars) to the grinning security guard who has just greeted you extravagantly but deliberately delays to either collect the tag or lift the barrier (so that you won’t escape before ‘paying your tax’), you judge for yourself.

Poverty is a convenient excuse for this prevailing syndrome in our culture, but honestly there are poorer countries than ours who do not submit to such corruptive values. And there was a time in Nigeria when we didn’t either.

Can we ever return to the way we once were?

We won’t know until we try.