MEMOIR: A HILARIOUS VOYAGE TO CALABAR

 

By Ekpor Temple

The Passion for Service

It all began with my bright idea to hit the road early. By 6:15 a.m., I was ready to meet Pastor Solomon Okonu at Mini-orlu, just past Okilton Junction along Ada-George (for those familiar with Port Harcourt) where our thrilling adventure to Calabar would begin. So I got there, and as I stood waiting, my phone rang. It was Pastor Okonu, who was clearly struggling trying to get a Bolt ride. He explained how all the drivers seemed unreachable, like they had vanished into thin air. Just as frustration was setting in, luckily, I managed to flag down a cab. And with that, we were on our way to Oil Mill, our magical portal to Oron.

Why embark on this journey, you may ask? Well, let’s just say I’m no stranger to insane schedules. As part of the Eastern Nigeria Union Conference (ENUC) Communication Department's annual activities for the Seventh-day Adventist Church, we have five key public relations programs for our churches: Security Services Day, Family Values Day, Workers' Thanksgiving, National Day of Prayer, and Community Service Week.

The ENUC’s Communication Department designed these programs to align with significant milestones on Nigeria's social calendar. For example, this Community Service Week was connected to October 1st. It allows the church to focus on different aspects of our duty to the society and fosters strong connections both corporate and informal between the church, its members, and the broader society, including civil, military, corporate, government, and citizen groups.

This time, Cross River Conference was the host of the national center, and my Boss Elder Azukoye Amadi desired that I lead the delegation in worship. Easy, right? Sure. The adventure, however, began long before the wheels started rolling.

The Park drama at Dawn

Fast forward to the park, we arrived and navigated our way around. "Has Pastor Solomon eaten?" I wondered, so I openly asked, “Pastor, have you eaten?” He replied that Shepardess (his wife) had given him some bread before he left home. Okk..I nodded, knowing that bread alone wouldn't cut it for me. Like any sensible man facing a long trip, I wasn’t about to let my stomach become a casualty. Experience had taught me that hunger and long journeys mix like oil and water, so I needed to fuel up. Thinking the Siena bus would fill up quickly, I scouted the area for a decent "mama put" (a local buka). I ordered what we used to call a "concussion balanced diet" back in secondary school days—a hearty mix of rice, spag, beans, meat, and plantain. After devouring my meal, I returned to find out, that we'd be sitting and waiting for at least another 2 hours for the bus to fill up. And believe me, that wait came with its own share of drama.

Usually, when you're about to embark on an interstate journey, the driver gives you a ticket, and names are written in the manifest in the order of arrival. There was this one passenger who claimed to be a military man. He arrived early, then left for a nearby market to pick up some items, thinking he had enough time to do some shopping before the bus filled up.

By the time he returned, we were already about to drive out of the park. Unbeknownst to the driver and those loading the bus, someone else had paid for his seat. The man was furious, and that’s when the drama began. Identifying who should give up their seat so he could board became a real issue. The scene that followed was nothing short of chaos, angry words, threats of violence, and a frantic search for a solution. For nearly an hour, tensions ran high until the park coordinators finally intervened, refunded his money and booked him on another Siena bus.  Lesson learned: never leave your seat unclaimed in a park where time waits for no one.

We finally hit the road around 9:49 a.m. Pastor Okonu and I filled the journey with discussions about Nigeria’s endless problems, the elusive “Nigerian dream,” and everything in between. As we traveled, the conversation drifted to Chikere, our  ICT manager, who was supposed to join us but had opted to take a different route through Aba.

The journey was made more grueling by the numerous security checkpoints along the way. This came as no surprise, given the country's ongoing security challenges, which have tightened security measures on our roads. We drove through 23 police checkpoints before reaching Ikot-Abasi. Was I surprised? Not at all. In the last six months, I had traveled that road five times. Twice for Super Eagles games and three times for personal engagements. Each stop had its own mini-drama, but one particular incident during this journey stood out. We were pulled over for a routine inspection, and everything seemed fine until a young lady in our bus let out an irritated hiss. That single act infuriated the officer. "Everyone out! Driver, offload all the luggage. We want to search!" he shouted angrily. So, we all had to step down, and one by one, we were thoroughly searched, causing a significant delay.

As the journey continued, I dozed off, missing out on some of the lively conversations among the other passengers. I really need to pray for deliverance from this habit of sleeping during trips, especially with the soothing breeze that makes it all too easy. By the time we finally arrived in Oron, Akwa-Ibom State, it was already close to 1:30 p.m.

Chaos in the Buka

Upon arriving at the park, we hopped on an Okada (a motorcycle) and made our way to the sea terminal. After completing the routine clearance, we settled in to wait for our 5pm boarding time. As we took in the sights of industrial activities around the shore, hunger struck Pastor Okonu who suggested we take a stroll to find a place to eat. We eventually found a buka (local eatery) where the vendor told us she only had Afang and white soup. Afang soup, much like edikanikong soup, is one of the staple dishes enjoyed by the people of Akwa Ibom and Calabar in Nigeria. I had hoped for okra or a different soup, but we had limited options. Considering our Adventist beliefs and health-conscious lifestyle, we were wary of unknown ingredients and wanted to avoid any temptation to break our dietary principles. So, we opted for the white soup, which the vendor assured us was wholesome and safe. With smiles of relief, we exhaled, ready to enjoy our meal.

The real entertainment, however, came when a hungry madman wandered by the buka while we were having lunch. He spotted a meal prepared for a customer and decided he would help himself. I mean, who needs money when you can just snatch someone’s plate, right? Instead of asking the vendor for a plate, he rushed at the maid who was washing dishes and grabbed the food from her. A struggle ensued, and the plate fell to the ground, shattering into pieces. In true madman fashion, he threw the broken plate at the maid’s head! For a moment, we thought the poor girl's head was smashed. Miraculously, she dodged just in time. The madman raged and shouted as he stormed off, leaving the scene in chaos.

I leaned over to Pastor Okonu and whispered in our local parlance, “if this guy try dis thing for PH, we go forget say na mad man, beat am wella” (If this guy tries this in PH, we would forget he's a madman and give him a proper beating of his life) we both burst into laughter.

While we were sitting there, letting the meal digest, we spotted a woman hawking oranges. The price seemed cheap, and we were curious to know if the oranges actually had water in them. You see, the ones in Port Harcourt often leave you chewing nothing but the fiber—no juice, just disappointment. When we asked her, she confidently assured us, "Yes, they have plenty of water." Pastor Okonu and I exchanged skeptical glances, thinking it was probably just a marketing gimmick to persuade us to buy. Still, we decided to take a chance. She started peeling, and we bought 12 oranges for 400 naira. "Who would give you that many for this price in Port Harcourt?" we exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. As we enjoyed the juicy oranges, we got soaked in the busy activity along the sea shore, where young men hustled through various jobs to make a living.

Has Chikere learnt his lessons?

Now, about Chikere Emmanuel Odu, our ENUC’s ICT Manager, he wasn’t traveling with us since he is based in Aba. The plan was for him to meet us in Oron. As we waited, around 3:16 p.m., I decided to give him a call to check on his progress. What I heard wasn’t what I wanted to hear, his bus had broken down. "Bros, hmmm..." I sighed but kept quiet. I had warned him about taking that route, but he was determined to go through Aba to Oron, despite my reservations. Well, some lessons are best learned the hard way, and this seemed to be one of those times.

Pastor Okonu, who overheard the conversation, whispered, "Flexibility is good, but prudence saves time!" At this point, I wasn’t even sure Chikere would make it in time for our 5pm boarding to Calabar.

Meanwhile, there was this woman hawking snails who had approached us several times. She kept coming back, hoping we’d buy from her. Eventually, I had to tell her politely that we don’t eat snails. She stared at me for a moment, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Sensing something was off, Pastor Okonu asked her if she was okay and offered her a seat near us. She accepted and sat down quietly. As the afternoon dragged on, I realized my phone battery was running low. Needing to charge it, I set out in search of a place to power up.  

At 5:07 PM, we boarded the boat headed for Calabar. The calmness of the sea provided a welcome reprieve from the madness of the day. Just as the boat was leaving, guess who decided to call? Chikere! Fresh off his broken-down bus and now stranded in Oron, he sounded frustrated. “Find a canoe, a speedboat, anything,” I advised him. But alas, it was too late. The Oron waterfront had shut down for the night, leaving Chikere with no choice but to spend the night there. Lesson learned: Aba buses are unreliable.

Whats the hype’s about Calabar

Meanwhile, Pastor Okonu and I settled in for a peaceful boat ride alongside 28 other passengers. Though the sea journey lasted only an hour, it was serene. As we sailed into Calabar, memories of the city’s beauty flooded my mind. “People’s Paradise!” I shouted joyfully, my excitement bubbling over. Upon disembarking, I called our contact who had been keeping tabs on us throughout the journey. Within 10 minutes, he arrived with his wife to pick us up from the terminal. They whisked us away to our accommodation at FrancChris Suites, ready to kick off the next chapter of our adventure.

That average man was Elder Carlton Enogbong! The treasurer of the Cross River Conference. A week before the journey, Pastor Eddy (The Conference President) had informed me that someone would be delegated to oversee our travel arrangements. He sent me Carlton’s contact, and that’s how our conversations about the trip to Calabar began.

Thats Elder Enny Carlton with us

By the time we arrived at the hotel and checked in, exhaustion had fully set in. Ironically, the hotel was like an Instagram filter in reverse. On the outside, it appeared to be the epitome of luxury. But once inside, the charm quickly faded. We were greeted by malfunctioning amenities: no hot water, a still wall clock, a barely functioning air conditioner, and no properly connected intercom. In my room, they couldn’t even provide me with a towel, the usual antiseptic bar soap and tissue, and I couldn't help but wonder if the receptionist expected me to trek down to the ground floor just to ask for basic necessities. Frustrated, I threw up my hands and gave up on them entirely.

Pastor called, and we had a quick prayer session with a friend. Afterward, I headed back to my room, used the toiletries I’d packed, took a much-needed bath, and ate sthe jellof rice Mrs. Carlton packed for our dinner. Then I collapsed into bed, hoping to catch the Serie A match between AC Milan vs Lecce. But honestly, the stress of the day knocked me out even before the match could hit the first half.

On Saturday morning, we prepared and waited until 10am. Elder Carlton had already informed us about the seriousness of the sanitation exercise in Calabar, warning that those who default would face the full brunt of the law. So, we decided to relax in our hotel while we awaited Chikere. By 10:09, he drove to the hotel, picked us up, and within 10 minutes, we arrived at Goldie, where our conference headquarters is located. This is one of Calabar’s most prominent Adventist churches, and it sits on a disputed land. “Wow! What a sight! We can’t afford to lose this property! God will provide the money” Pastor Okonu exclaimed, as if he could hear my thoughts. The church building itself was stunning, the structure was magnificent, an architectural masterpiece surrounded by perfectly manicured landscape. I was filled with emotions as I admired the lovely edifice, beautifully situated at the heart of Calabar. I began to wonder how the conference got entangled in this legal crisis, leaving the church on the back foot, seeking millions of naira for an out-of-court settlement. If not, we risked losing the land and everything on it.

When we arrived on Sababth Morning

The Cross River Conference Headquarters

Interestingly, through my investigations, I learned that the church in this generation inherited the mistakes of our leaders from the 1970s. I can't help but wonder why the Incorporated Trustees of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church in ENUC are struggling to pay off this debt. But that’s a matter for another day. Lost in thought about the church building, we were suddenly greeted by Chikere, who had arrived earlier. We embraced him warmly and mocked him hilariously. Pastor Eddy Ewoh, Executive Secretary of (CRC) Bassey Adams, and a few others came to welcome us into the church. By the time we arrived at 10:45, the Sabbath School was in full swing, and we eagerly soaked in the service.

The worship session was uplifting, and we knew we needed to wrap up by 2pm to prepare for our departure to the sea terminal, as our booking was for 3:30pm. True to their word, the conference leadership ensured everything stayed on schedule. With a visitor filled congregation, Pastor Solomon Okonu delivered a powerful and spell bounding  sermon titled “Are You Saved.” It was captivating and concise, and by 1:45pm, we were wrapping up right on time.

Afang soup on a Sabbath

As the service ended, we took several group pictures with my NAAC peers, Elder Emmanuel Enyiogor, Pastor Trust Ama and Brother Austin Uka Vicker. Then, our time manager, Elder Carlton, rushed us to the Parsonage, where we were treated to a sumptuous meal. And when I say feast, I truly mean it! Elder Carlton’s wife whipped up a local delicacy, Afang soup. Interestingly, she happened to be my sister from Eleme. We joked that Elder Carlton would come to negotiate a special bride price for us, that’s a matter for another day. Hahahhahah..., we laughed. The soup was incredibly tasty, to say the least. Thick with plenty of meat; the eba we molded couldn't even penetrate the soup! When the combination of proteins leaves no room for the garri, you know you’re in for a treat! and we enjoyed the fellowship that followed.

After the meal, we drove straight to the Sea Express terminal in Calabar, continuing our political discussion about the city. Elder Carlton, with an ambivalent expression, took us down memory lane, recounting how Julius Berger Company built a “Thank You House” for former governor of the state, Mr. Donald Duke CON, in recognition of his positive developmental strides during his administration. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said today, as the trees and vegetation seemed to gasp for air, reflecting the leadership quagmire and economic hardship. We all chuckled at the pathetic irony.

Arriving at the terminal around 3:06pm, we feared we were late. The atypical crowd of passengers added to our anxiety, but we headed straight to the ticket area, only to be informed that all boats were experiencing engine problems and that Saturday’s bookings had been shifted to the next day. “Gosh!” we exclaimed, “What do we do now?” Thankfully, Elder Carlton hadn’t left yet; he was waiting to wave us goodbye. Instead, he took us back to the hotel, this time accompanied by Chikere.

As a tourist, I decided to make the most of the unexpected free evening. I called some friends living in Calabar, and we enjoyed the vibrant nightlife the city is known for. With a delightful blend of vegetable-spiced tilapia, fried yam, and a fruity smoothie, I returned to the hotel feeling fulfilled. Pls don’t salivate!

The next day, we woke up with renewed optimism, hoping for a smoother journey. We arrived at the sea terminal, where the crew conducted thorough searches, documentation checks, and preparations. When it was finally time, we were ushered into the boat, and off we went, zoomed across the sea back to Oron. 

Sea Express, Calabar terminal

When we arrived at Oron shore, we quickly hopped into three separate motorbikes, heading to the nearest park to continue our journey back to Port Harcourt. By then, hunger had set in, so I asked Chikere to scout for a local buka. Being a Sunday morning, no food vendors were in sight. Fortunately, we came across a lady selling food by the roadside. I paid for the three of us, and she dished the meal into disposable plates. As we waited for the Siena bus to fill up, we decided to dig in. The moment Pastor Solomon took his first bite, the look on his face said it all, I was in for a bad meal. I tore open my disposable plate, scooped a spoonful, and braced myself. One bite, and my suspicions were confirmed. It was terrible. With a wry smile, I recalled how, when she was serving the food, I had half-jokingly told the lady, “I hope the taste of this food won’t be as ugly as your face.” Sadly, she didn’t disappoint, this was the worst meal I’d had in 2024!  Despite the lackluster taste, we forced ourselves to finish the meal for the sake of our grumbling stomachs and to avoid wasting our money. But honestly, it was a meal best forgotten.

All of a sudden, another drama unfolded. I noticed a commotion at the far end of the road, and my curiosity got the better of me. As I moved closer to the scene, it was clear that things were spiraling out of control, guys were throwing punches like their lives depended on it. "What could be the problem?" I wondered.

The Gamblers Joint

A nearby onlooker, who seemed to have been following the action closely, filled me in. "They're gamblers," he said, nodding toward the chaos. It turned out that a group of guys had been betting big money on a WHOT card game. The objective? Whoever picks the card with the queen wins the pot. But for five rounds straight, the game’s owner had been pulling off sneaky tricks, making sure no one won. Then, an okada rider who had been quietly observing decided to place his own bet of 20,000 naira. When the game master laid down the cards on the makeshift table, the rider, sharp-eyed and quick-thinking, correctly identified the queen card. The crowd was stunned as he won.

But instead of handing over the promised 100,000 naira, the chief gambler started shouting and tried intimidating the okada rider. Sensing that trouble was brewing, the rider immediately called on his fellow motorcyclists for backup, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

“Hmmm,” I sighed, realizing the situation was getting too heated for my liking. Without further ado, I turned back and silently made my way to the Siena bus, eager to leave the madness behind.

After settling, the park masters, the driver entered his Bus, and the journey back to Port Harcourt started. Marked by more drama and delay, from Oron with similar experienced security check points, including police searches where even our laptops were inspected. The difference between the earlier check point is that these ones were after identifying the origins of the passengers…so they flagged our bus, and we stopped, they will come close to the Bus and start asking…”What is your name, where did you come from” if they are satisfied with the response, they will order the driver to move.

The mandate was delivered!

On our way back, just before reaching the interstate market in the Khana area, our Seina bus was stopped by the police for a routine check. The officer approached, and I must admit, I respected how thorough he was in carrying out his duties. However, things took an interesting turn when he noticed three laptops in the bus mine, Chikere’s, and one belonging to another passenger. Without delay, he ordered the laptops to be seized, and the interrogation began.

He asked us to provide receipts or proof of ownership. After a long round of explanations, I finally told him I was a journalist. Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced. It took some more back-and-forth before I showed him a soft copy of my ID, with a firm nudge about the risks of being kept on such a dangerous road. That did the trick, he immediately apologized and instructed his colleagues to return my laptop and that of Chikere. However, he held onto the third laptop, refusing to release it until the passenger could show a receipt. I decided to step in again, this time to vouch for the passenger. After a bit of negotiation, the passenger reluctantly reached into his pocket to “pay homage to the gods of the road” (you know what I mean). With that, the officer finally let us go, and we set off, relieved to be on our way again.

Just as we were leaving,, a fight broke out on the opposite lane between another officer and a passenger. The officer, clearly feeling empowered by shout from the passengers resorted to intimidation. I even saw him beating up one of the passengers. If anyone cared to investigate,  it would be clear the officer was likely in the wrong. But in Nigeria, security personnel rarely, if ever, admit to their mistakes. It’s their way. I’ve had my own battles with them; my skirmish back in February is still fresh in my memory. But that’s a story for another memoir.

From that point onward, we had a smooth ride down to Eleme Junction, where we all alighted, and I quickly booked a taxi home. When I finally arrived that afternoon, a wave of joy and accomplishment washed over me. It wasn’t just because the journey had come to an end or we had fulfilled our mandate, but because it was one of those trips you don’t easily forget.

 

That night, as I settled in and reflected on the day, my writer's instinct kicked in. The entire trip had to be told, shared with the world. There’s something about traveling in Nigeria that transforms even the most ordinary routine journey into a tale worth telling, filled with moments that make you pause, laugh, and reflect.