Ode to Okadas

I’m usually slow to warm up to two wheel travel. I remember my early days in Amsterdam when wild horses couldn’t chase me onto a bicycle. I was told it was the only way to get around but I resisted. Today, I can say that I am the proud owner of a ‘I love my bike’ bell and dream of the day I will be able to afford that gorgeous hybrid Claude Butler.

I grew to love bicycles, not just for the speed but also the sheer abandon of the wind in my hair and the immense high of a good tail wind.

When I first came to Freetown, I was warned that under no circumstance was I to get on an okada. A Nigerian word, okadas are motorcycle taxis that zip between cars, speed headfirst into traffic and have caused more than more serious accident. I was intrigued though, it must be cool getting around at the speed of crazy. Many of the okada drivers are former combatants from the war who because of a lack of employment opportunities have turned their bikes into people movers. Everyone loves to hate them, they speed, they’re rude, they rip people off and are disrespectful of traffic police.

About a month back, I finally boarded one with great apprehension. Should I hold on to the driver? Would that give him the wrong idea? How do I contract my body into a shape small enough to slide between two closely parked cars? Zipping down a hill while a mild drizzle came on, I was sure that this was it. I was going to die in Freetown in the most inglorious way, a motor cycle accident. By the grace of god (a popular local exclamation) I arrived at my destination in one piece. I was quivering as I reached for my wallet to pay the man, my knees wobbled as I crossed the road, I was petrified. But I was also hooked.

I’ve slowly picked up bits of okada etiquette, how to get on while wearing a skirt, how to get the driver to slow down by saying “go small, go small” and how to close my eyes tight during those careening moments of terror. I recently promised a friend that I would introduce her to okada travel in Freetown and I can’t believe I ever lived without them. I may not have a bicycle anymore but I can still feel the wind in my hair and watch the city whiz by.

So that’s how I came to love okadas. It’s part of the romance of Freetown and I’m most upset that the traffic authorities are trying to get rid of them. Are they a menace to society? Sure, but what’s life if you can’t live a little dangerously?