The Babylon Pit

I have heard many rumours about the Babylon Pit, from the oldest colleague, even to the most recent ones who had the misfortune to pass through it. But barely a week after I came to this family, my older colleague, an older model of my brand, who I was just getting to know better, went there and never came back. That cemented my fear about the pit and snuffed out any form of doubt.

Rumours had it that it was a soft ground that had been cut open and dug by the constant flow of traffic in and out till it resembled an enormous gulf, and there people like me were mired to death. They said since it was in the biggest market in Nigeria, a never-ending line of animals and vehicles, loading and unloading supplies and people, made the mud and confusion worse as they toiled in and struggled out, drivers swearing, animals plunging, and mud spattering for kilometers.

It was painful whenever I ruminated on those thoughts. If I was not thinking of Salon after the day’s work, I could not imagine how any well-functioning maniac could pass through that place and say he was human. It was not illogical. True, I had suffered a lot of pains in some hell-fires called roads. But, I knew the Babylon pit was the ultimate evil, it was the death of all. And I prayed. Yes, I prayed. Don’t ask me to whom, because I don’t know, but I prayed because even if I was to die, I didn’t want my death to be at the hands of the Babylon pit.

That night, in a meeting with my colleagues in the neighbourhood, the oldest colleague informed us that one of us, he wasn’t sure who, would be going to the Babylon pit tomorrow. When he delivered the news on my megahertz with a code red crackle, I felt he was joking. At the same time, I knew he was not. Since my five years of being with the Olowude’s family, it was only once the code red was used, and because of the meeting, at least five of us escaped being burnt. So, the going out tomorrow of one of us to the Babylon pit was worth putting out a code red.

“Good evening, my brothers,” the voice of Mr. Volkswagen beetle began. “I do not have all night to talk because my owner is going for his night shift soon, but I need every one of you to know one of you will be going to the Babylon pit. It might seem childish that I am giving a warning, but I have to because unlike other times, it is the rainy season. And if you don’t know, it is the most hazardous time to go there. I don’t know who it is, but I can say boldly that one of you will be going there. So, I have come to give a piece of advice that has never failed me in my 20 years of existence in this neighbourhood…” The frequency through which the Beetle spoke suddenly changed to a loud crackle before he could finish.

His master was already in the car. I knew immediately as the over twenty cars in the neighbourhood that the person going tomorrow was in deep trouble without the much-guarded secret of the Beetle’s survival. I prayed for the vehicle that was about to take the journey of no return; that his way would be straight.

The sun appeared too fast in the morning, beating my sunroof with the aggression of rain. My radiator cried over and over again that it wanted to pee, but I didn’t answer its plea. Because I could not. Only Mr. Olowude had the power to do it and it seemed he wasn’t going out today. I knew it was quite impossible, but the sun was almost getting to the middle, and no one was coming out. At least I was happy I was not the one going to the Babylon pit. I was deep in slumber when Mrs. Olowude came out. I went over the moon in my chartreuse body. I was going to see Toyota Salon. If you don’t know, Toyota Salon was the girl I was ‘shooting my shot’ at. But since I only saw her once in a blue moon, I always took charge of the opportunity. Today as I was going to Madam’s office, I would strive hard for Salon to talk to me and connect with me.

Mrs. Olowu depressed my accelerator mercilessly, but her tender hands were always able to give my steering wheel the needed succour. In between her monotonous cursing to fellow drivers, she pressed my brake too hard sometimes that I almost skidded. But I bore it because her buttocks were of much more comfort to me than her husband’s. As she drove into her office car park, I prayed she parked beside Salon. And that was exactly what she did. I blushed. But Salon wasn’t happy to see me. It had been four months, ten days, and two hours since I last saw her. And then she was all glossy in her velvet skin. But now she looked dull, although I must confess her beauty was still there. I opened my frequency.

“Salon, my dear!”

She didn’t respond. Then I used my lines. Yes, I am a poet.

“Forgive me for startling you with the impetuosity of my sentiments, my dear Salon. It cannot have escaped your notice that for some time past the friendship I have had in my heart for you has ripened into a deeper feeling, a feeling more beautiful, purer, and more sacred. Dare I name it to you? Ah! It is love that makes me so bold! Salon. It is love.”

The frequency played a note. She was crying. Whether it was because of her former sorrow, or because of what I said, I didn’t know. But Salon was my first and only. And I was ready to do anything for her.

“I…I a…am go…i…nnn…g to the Ba…aabyyyyy…lo…nnn pit.”

The breath flew out of me when I heard her over my radio.

“Why?”

“I dd…on’t knnn…owww,” she stammered, her sniffs getting loud and a little irritating.

“What do we do? And please stop stammering.” She broke down into another round of tears.

“Thank you,” she said barely audibly on the frequency. It was that easy. It worked, at that moment, the doors of the office opened and Mrs. Olowude and her friend came out, with loads and loads of bags. I saw the pain that Salon would go through and I passed my condolences wishing her all the strength I had. However, I realised it wouldn’t be necessary.

I was also going to the Babylon pit. I was the one the beetle was talking about. I was dumbstruck, but I knew I had to release my engines if I didn’t want the filthy handwork of some quack roadside doctors who put the brake oil in the gear and spoiled the well-functioning part of the car just so we’d come back. No. I wasn’t ready for another visit. I obediently went to Babylon market, not annoyed at the violent dancing I was doing at various mouths of the hungry road because I knew they were children, little children who couldn’t do anything to me as much as the pit.

When my owner’s wife parked with Salon at my side, I thought the worst was not going to happen because we didn’t pass any deadly place as the famed pit. In truth, I had not seen it, and since I didn’t experience anything enormous. I thought we wouldn’t pass it, I rejoiced until Salon told me that we would soon face it. I cried then.

One of the evils of bad roads is that most times, especially after rainfalls you don’t know how bad they are. You just never seem to realise it till you are in. Then all you want is to come out alive and sing the survivor song. That was what I wanted to do with the Babylon pit, but I wasn’t sure if the fragile body of Salon would be able to bear it. The salon was right in front, as we came towards the hell fire of cars, the one that refined and made cars never be the same again. Mrs. Olowude gave my brake a hundred percent pressure. Stiff as I tried to be as we started to dance and jiggle about, my wing vibrating and lashing the rain residuals of yesterday, it was unsuccessful. Several times, she hit her head lightly a she held my steering. I tried not to spin but just endure the gnarl of the earth on my abdomen beneath and the ferociousness of strange and monstrous lorries. I landed on the ground, hard, thrice with my abdomen and my gear oil started to leak. The car behind, a Honda Accord came too close to me and slammed my bumper. The shockwave hit me hard but I tried to keep the whole effect from her. In the process, I hit the salon’s right rear wing with my front left wing. Right in front of me, I saw the Salon spin 180 degrees, rear to front. I engaged the brake myself as I saw the head of Mrs. Olowude’s friend snap. At the same time, my dear Salon shifted sideways to the right and stopped, the water vomit of the earth up to its window.

Immediately, the driver stopped and ran to her friend. The first person to get to her, a Fulani man, opened the door and brought her out, limp. I knew she was lifeless. I willed someone to start Salon because I couldn’t get to her by my frequency. The Fulani man put his head in and turned the ignition, and I smiled. Salon and I did not die in Babylon’s pit today. We were saints.

TESTIMONY AKINKUNMI

is a Yoruba-born teen writer who takes special interest in distilling African-brewed problems with words, images and Christ. He has been featured on Hub and Qwenu.