Comedy at a polling booth

A solitary figure seated on a long wooden bench, humming a strange tune, and leaves rustling from a nearby tree, were the only signs of life as I got to the polling unit a few minutes after 8am on Saturday. I greeted the middle aged man, he wore a faded blue shirt with a bold inscription ‘Vote Wisely’, and he told me he had arrived 15 minutes earlier. I sat down and we began to chat. Minutes later, more signs of life were apparent. An elderly man, clutching a walking stick on his left arm, stopped by and inquired if the voting had begun; two youth arrived on their bicycles, parked them under the tree and on second thoughts, retrieved them and rode away; two police officers walked past, retraced their steps, and asked after an address. “You are in the right place,” said the middle aged man, and shifted on the bench to give more room to the female officers. Two immigration officers drove into the street, parked, and waited in their car. It was 9 a.m now and there was no sign of the Independent National Electoral Commsiion officers. A fair skinned man, who arrived before the police officers, glanced at his watch, muttered something under his breath, and continued his gaze into nothingness. One hour later, the electoral commission staff had not arrived. One of the police officers had dozed off while her partner was battling to stay awake. The handful of people at the polling unit were discussing every topic that caught their fancy, from politics to sports to environmental sanitation. A mobile phone rang. It was one of the officers, the one who was struggling to conquer sleep. Her partner stirred from her sleep. “Where una dey,” she spoke into the phone and waited. “They said they are enjoying there, I am going there to take one bottle,” she announced to her colleague who, by now, was fully awake. “Abeg, bring one can for me,” the colleague replied. Her colleague stood up, adjusted her uniform, and stepped into the hot, morning sun. Out of curiosity, and for want of something to do, I decided to tail her and, if possible, partake in the ‘enjoyment.’ Five minutes later, the officer stopped in front of a locked shop, knocked, and waited. Immediately, a man’s face parted the curtains from the inside, nodded at the officer, and unlocked the door. The officer disappeared inside and the dark skinned fellow briskly locked the door again. I approached the door and listened, loud cheers and laughs were coming from inside, but the curtains draped across the doorway ensured no one on the outside catches a glimpse of the activities inside. I tucked my accreditation card out of sight, walked to the door and knocked. The dark face appeared again. “Yes?” He looked disinterested. “I wan drink beer,” I told him. He parted the curtains further, looked me up and down. “You no know say election dey.” “But someone just entered now. Besides, INEC people never come,” I retorted. The dark man looked me up and down again, seemed unsure about his next line of action. Finally, he said, “Oga, come back after election. I no want wahala,” his tone was final. He disappeared behind the curtains again. By now, it was almost noon, and still no sign of the officials at the polling unit. I decided to stroll to other polling units within the neighbourhood. At the nearby Idowu Street, a familiar voice called out. He was squeezing out the last drop of liquid from a sachet water into his mouth. “Ah! Bros, you come late o. We just finish eating rice wey dem share for us now.” It turned out that a local party chieftain in the area had declared a free lunch for all the voters at the polling unit, and the security officials. He had also paid for canopies to be erected to shield them from the sun. At around 12.30 noon, the electoral commission staff began arriving at some of the polling units along the street. I decided to return to my unit. The officials assigned to my unit had already arrived and had begun accreditation. People had queued, under the scorching noon sun, patiently waiting for the election officer to mark the base of their thumb’s nail with ink, the sign of accreditation. A gentleman at the front of the line insisted that the election officer put more ink on his nail. “See, I wan go take my bath now. If water erase the ink now you no go gree do am again.” About one hour later, news of the postponement filtered in.