This one was on a Nigerian website. Found it funny, felt you good people should see it as well...
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http://www.vanguardngr.com/articles/2002/columns/sketches/sk30082006.html)
A good friend who has been living in England for more than fifteen years called me on the phone the other day to tell me that he was planning to return home to settle in Lagos, and would like to buy a house. He also said that having heard a lot of frightening stories about daylight robberies, people being assassinated in their own bedrooms, and the generally deteriorating security situation, he did not want to take stupid chances. Could I therefore find him a three or four bedroom house in a clean, quiet and secure part of Lagos? He was prepared to pay a reasonable price.
I almost told him that there was no such thing as a clean, quiet and secure place anywhere in Lagos, but that was not the sort of thing one should be telling a man who wanted to return to his native land after a fifteen year sojourn in a foreign country, so I told him that I would do my best.
The next day I called at the office of an estate agent. I would have done far better if I had directed my inquiries to the Controller of Prisons.
“What part of Lagos do you have in mind?” the estate agent asked.
“Old Ikoyi,” I said without hesitation. “It has this reputation of being very secure. It is also very clean and quiet.”
The estate agent was incredulous. “Is that what your friend told you, or is it what you have discovered for yourself?” he asked.
“It is something from my own recollection of the place.”
I then told him a story about the time when my brother and I, as schoolboys, visited a relation in Ikoyi. This relation was a senior civil servant who lived somewhere on Cameron Road. It was a Sunday afternoon, and as our visit ended and we started on the long walk to Obalende bus stop (no buses were allowed into Ikoyi in those days) a police corporal standing guard at the gate of a splendid colonial mansion stepped out to caution us sternly against talking too loudly and disturbing the oyinbo who was having his siesta inside. From that point until we were well past Bank Road, my brother and I walked on tiptoe, as you might say, and conversed in whispers.
“What year was this?” the estate agent asked.
“That was in 1948. And ever since then I have associated Ikoyi with quietness and security.”
“Have you been to Ikoyi lately?” the estate agent asked.
I had to admit that I hadn’t. “The last time I went there, some people had renamed the streets after themselves, and I couldn’t find my way around.”
The estate agent took a file from a drawer of his desk and began to turn the pages. “A house in a safe part of Ikoyi did you say? How about this one? Four bedrooms, all en suite; two-room boys quarters; high fence topped with razor wire; fortified gate house; big garden.”
“Is it in a safe area?” I asked
“Couldn’t be safer. It’s right next door to a police station.”
“I hope it wasn’t the police station that was raided by hoodlums two weeks ago. They took the sergeant hostage and stole four police rifles.”
“Could be,” the estate agent said. He hastily turned to another page. “Here is a really good one. A three bedroom bungalow; electrified fence; state of the art burglar alarm; burglar proofing on every window; solid bullet proof doors. Just the job.”
“What happened to the previous owner?”
“He moved out after some armed robbers climbed on the roof and broke some roofing tiles to gain entry. But the tiles have now been replaced, and the house is again as good as new.”
“I don’t think my friend would feel secure in such a house,” I said. “Don’t you have something with a moat round it - the kind of moat that castles have?”
“Not exactly a moat perhaps,” the estate agent said, “but there’s a property on the outer fringe of Old Ikoyi that has a creek at the front and swampland at the back. It’s virtually inaccessible.”
“Only virtually?” I asked, disappointed.
“Well, a few miscreants did manage to break into the place one night. Twenty of them, as a matter of fact. I have never ceased to wonder how they were able to swim so well while carrying the heavy safe and other household goods they stole from the house.”
“They must have come from one of those riverine areas in the South-South,” I suggested
“Possibly. If your friend should buys the property I would advise him to stock the creek with crocodiles.”
“You think that would help?”
“If it doesn’t, he can always keep a few lions in his backyard. A minister of petroleum resources in one of our past military regimes did that, and was able to protect his hard earned billions.”
I briefly considered the lion option, and then shook my head. “No, the neighbours would complain,” I said. “And, anyway, my friend doesn’t have money to spend on feeding lions.”
“Isn’t he coming back with lots of pounds sterling?”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Then why does he need a safe house? What is he trying to safeguard?”
“He doesn’t think that armed robbers would believe that he isn’t coming back loaded with pounds sterling. Would you believe that a man who has lived in England for fifteen years would return home with less than a container load of foreign exchange?”
“I wouldn’t,” the estate agent admitted. He again consulted his file and then said: “Would your friend be interested in a comfortable duplex in Obalende? It is not exactly in Ikoyi but it is close enough, and it is very secure, especially at night.”
“What makes it secure?” I asked.
“It is wedged between an army barracks, a police barracks, and an old cemetery that people believe is full of ghosts, but what really makes the place secure is that nobody there sleeps between dusk and dawn. Obalende has more pepper soup joints, more beer parlours, more suya spots and more street traders per square metre than any other part of Nigeria, and with people so wide awake, anybody caught committing a crime would be lynched instantly.”
I thought it over for a moment, and then shook my head. “My friend won’t want to live in a place like that,” I said. “He likes to have a good sleep once in a while.”
The estate agent extracted a photograph from his file and said: “Here is a real dandy, in old Ikoyi. A veritable fortress. Impregnable.”
I examined the photograph. It was of a solid looking two-storey house, all brown, with no pretensions to elegance. It had heavy bars in the windows, and grilles enclosing the verandah and balcony. The fence surrounding it was nearly four metres high, and was topped with a concertina of razor wire. The gate was so massive that it would have taken a small nuclear device to make a dent in it. I looked again. There seemed to be something rather odd about it, and it took me some time to spot it.
“How does one get in or out?” I asked. “There isn’t anything here that looks like a door, just bars and grilles.”
“There is a very small door somewhere at the back. It is bullet proof, and has two combination locks and four dead bolts. If you can’t see it, you can be sure that no unwelcome intruders will see it either. That’s what makes it so secure.”
“What happens in case of fire?”
“I’m in the real estate business,” the man said, bristling “not in the fire service.”
After I had apologized for asking a stupid question he simmered down and said: “Would your friend consider buying a fairly used bullion van and converting it into a bed-sitter? It is on the small side, but I believe a bunk bed can be squeezed into it. Perfect for a bachelor who is paranoid about security.”
“My friend is married, and has four children,” I said.
“Then what he needs is a place with plenty of space for exercise. Have you considered Kirikiri?”.
“You mean the prison?”
“Yes. There is some unconfirmed rumour that the prison inmates may soon be moved to Abuja. Something to do with the (so far muted) complaint that the state government has been playing host to a federal facility all these years without being reimbursed for it. If the prisoners are moved to Abuja, the vacated premises in Apapa will be converted into flats and sold to people who really care about maximum security. Would your friend be interested?”
“You bet!” I said, heaving a sigh of relief. “I’ll phone him this very night.”