Between Matthew and Zacchaeus...

"Widen the tax net, godammit!"

Conversations with total strangers these days in public are almost always predictable...

“Omoh mennnn, this government no go kill us o…”

“Hmmm, my brother (or sister, as the case may be), even if dem try dem no go fit. Our God pass dem…”

And then the conversation would be prosecuted with either fiery animation or tranquil somberness, depending on the level of hunger gnawing away at each discussant’s stomach at the moment.

When the parties have exhausted themselves speaking of economics and statistics they may have very little idea of (usually the phrase, “na statistics we go chop” usually sneaks its way into the conversations, one way or another), switching between sighs and hisses, curses and prayers, a bond of camaraderie hastily formed upon the back of a sense of mutual suffering, they wistfully bid themselves farewell with the parting words, “God dey…”

So it was yesterday at the airport while I awaited my flight to be called. The only issue was that I, Manjaro, was in no mood for long talk.

As I sat playing chess on my phone in a bid to bridge time before we were called to board, already sufficiently irritated by the indefinite postponement of my flight, the lady seated to my right let out a long, caustic hiss. My irritation immediately heightened to the point it seemed like I felt flies perch on my earlobes.

Manjaro hates hisses! And Manjaro hates flies!

I turned around and stared at the woman, long enough to ensure she confirmed I was staring at her with thinly veiled disgust. She caught my stare. For a split second she looked apologetic, but only a split second. The next second, anger swept over her face—a fiery anger that made her eyes turn red in an instant.

“What the hell does five-percent Petroleum Tax mean, ehn? Please tell me, what exactly does this mean? Would the only news we will be hearing these days be tax…tax… tax? What is this for God’s sake? Kilode?!”

The intensity of her outburst made me prop myself upright on the seat, as I felt it would seem disrespectful to sit slouched when a total stranger found one worthy enough to offload her frustration upon. The irritation I felt barely half a minute before was gone as fast as it had come, and was replaced by a mixture of pity and despondency. I tilted to my right to give the lady my full attention. That was the least I could do in the circumstance.

“Uhmmm… I hadn’t even…emmm… heard of this before…You’re just making me aware…”

“Look at it nah. See it with your own eyes…” She thrust her phone towards my face, her hand stopping barely an inch from my face.

Ordinarily I would have been put off by such impetuousness and immediately put the woman in her place. I mean, she could have jabbed me in the face. But this was no ordinary time or exchange, and Manjaro’s drive to teach proper etiquette was effectively subdued.

I gingerly took the phone from her and placed it at a distance I could at least read the headline and first paragraph of the article, voicing in a low tone as I read, “Federal Government set to implement 5 percent Petroleum Tax…”

“Imagine! Imagine! Five percent here, ten percent there, every time percent, percent, at the end of the day, no be hundred percent be dat?”

I looked back at her and could only manage to shake my head slowly. Impulsively, I was moved to reach out and hold her hand, if that would offer some comfort, but I had to remind myself that I did not even know this woman’s name, and was also unsure if such a gesture may worsen her already foul mood. I kept my hand to myself.

“See now, a new school session has just begun. School fees have increased. Last session I paid three hundred thousand naira per term per child. I have three children in the school. Now it’s four hundred and twenty thousand naira per child. Imagine! FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY THOUSAND! That is one million two-sixty thousand naira per term. Where I go get am?” She slammed her Samsung phone on the space between us on the seat. I looked and confirmed that the phone-pouch was thick enough to absorb the shock. It’s never a good idea to crack a Samsung screen even in the best of times, not to talk of this period of multiple and increased taxation.

“Your own good nah, na only thirty-five percent increase dem increase your children school fees. My children school, na fifty percent increase, from one-hundred thousand to one-fifty thousand, kpakam…and I get four pikin for the school…”

This intervention was from the lady seated opposite us, who I was unaware was eaves dropping on the conversation. I had earlier noticed her, primarily because of what she wore: a yellow top with splashes of green and orange atop a red jean. I had mused about how coloured-up she was. Apparently her economic situation was in no way as colourful as she appeared.

Manjaro subconsciously began to calculate which between the two ladies and myself had the best deal regarding school fees increment, as I was also dealing with school fees increment. When I figured that my children’s school had increased their fees by just twenty-five percent—which was remarkably lower than the two ladies—I decided there was no point to contribute to this discussion on school fees beyond shaking my head slowly and saying somberly, “God dey…”

“No! No! No! Leave God out of this. We have been saying God dey, God dey since I was born forty-three years ago. Please leave God out of this, He is tired of Nigeria’s problems. He is tired ehhhhhh!” Her Samsung phone slipped out of her hand this time and fell into her lap as she gesticulated on how much God was tired of Nigeria. The last time Manjaro changed his Samsung phone screen two years ago it cost three-hundred thousand. I wondered if this woman knew what she was setting up herself for.

I sneaked a look at the lady again. Born forty-three years ago? I had earlier estimated her to be fifty…

“You are looking at me because I said I’m forty-three? March twenty-one, nineteen eighty-two is the day I was born. I look older, right? How won’t I? If this country does not kill you it will at least age you, you can’t escape it.”

“That’s it, my sister…” It was the colour-riot lady again. “I have aged five years in the past one year. But what can we do?” She folded her arms across her chest and let out a deep sigh.

I was tempted to turn on my phone’s selfie camera to assess if I was faring better than these ladies. Of course, I didn’t, it would have been too obvious.

A period of silence fell among the three of us, with the two ladies returning to their phones, punctuated by a boarding announcement on the public address system.

“Come o, I hope this tax tax tax everywhere has nothing to do with the fact that the FIRS chairman is called Zacchaeus… shebi that’s the man’s name, Zacchaeus?”  

I choked on the water I was drinking.  What a thought!

Chuckling, I turned towards the fifty-year-old looking forty-three-year-old lady who asked the question with a poker face that was totally at odds with all the fire she had been spitting so far. I burst out in laughter.

“Madam, I think his name is Zachh… Dr. Zachh…that’s what he’s called.”

“Eishhh, abegi… what is Zacch? Is there such a name? It’s Zacchaeus please. Zacchaeus the chief tax collector. He should just take it easy with us; this is not Jericho, and we are not in biblical times!”  

While still trying to wrap my head around the humorous angle the discussion of the economy had taken, and pausing to wonder whether the tax man’s name had any bearing with the career he took up and his being appointed chairman of the revenue agency, the colour-riot lady got on her feet and picked her carry-on luggage, and in a deadpan voice, said…

“Abeg dem don call my flight, make I dey go… I’m sure if Baba Tinubu had an English name it would have been Matthew… But God dey, we no go die!”

© Manjaro EsienIta