If anyone had ever told me that NEPA—oh! I mean to say PHCN—would one day provide 24 hours of uninterrupted electricity in my area, I would have definitely laughed, scoffed, or even dismissed it as something ridiculous and silly—something that would only happen when pigs fly
Yeah, you heard me, when you actually envision the impossibility becoming possible.Then we can boldly say the pigs have basically gotten an eagle's wings and are flapping them in your face as they fly into the literal sky. Guys! you need to actually rub your eyeballs and look again and again in disbelief to confirm if that chubby-looking pig, with all its crazy weight, is really flying.Haha.
"Wonders," they say, "shall never end!" I muttered.
But my "Impossible wonders," so to speak, happened and ended as well, on a very cool weekend, on one rainy Saturday, I remember that day vividly because my phone was at 2%, almost about to "die," so to speak. I had already located my rechargeable touch and lantern just in case, and then...
"Up NEPA!" the children and some neighbors shouted excitedly.
"Uh! sigh..." Mama Dele dragged the sigh angrily, as if she had whistles
in her mouth.
"light that would not last even for five minutes." Mr. Williams, another neighbor said.
"Let's enjoy it, though, while it last," I said happily.
Let me take you back a bit.
I live in a part of Lagos, Adeosun street, Surulere precisely, where power supply was more of a rumor than a service. In fact, back then, we usually joked about our light bills; we use to say we didn't really pay light bills—rather, we paid for 'hope bills,' so to speak. Then, after payment, we would pray, wait, and hope for the light to eventually come. The transformer was just returned after four years it was taken for repairs. The fixing of the transformer is not a guarantee that we would have light; even after they fixed it, we had gotten maybe just two hours of light every three days—oftentimes around 1:30 to 2: 00 a.m.when the light would be basically useless. You can't just do anything with it— I can't iron my clothes, watch television, or even enjoy it without sleep deprivation.
Generators of different ridiculous sounds were actually the soundtrack of my live. The smell of petrol was practically perfume. Inverters were for wealthy people. And of course, those who owned solar panels were admired by all and considered me royalty. They had escaped the curse—The black out curse.
Therefore, when the news came that a new electricity distribution initiative was coming to our neighborhood, nobody took it seriously.
"Is like the government has remembered us?! Oh, there's a rumor that there would be constant light henceforth in our area soon." Mama Dele said with conviction.
"You dey play, ni. Sigh..." Mr. Williams, gave a long sigh and rolled his eyes away from Mama Dele, as if he were a woman.
"Perhaps Mama Dele might be right; let's just be optimistic. You never can tell," I said still feeling happy but without shining my teeth, though. Otherwise, Mama Dele would rain curses at me. In fact, this PHCN had really gotten under her skin. You dare not get too excited with her around; otherwise, you would receive an unexpected slap from behind and non-stop curses.
"I will believe it when my fan spins non-stop for one good hour," I muttered while standing with Mama Dele and Mr. Williams, half-laughing.
"It's a scam," my neighbor, Mr. Williams, barked at the landlord's meeting. "They want to collect money and disappear. These people think that we don't have sense, I know all there moves. It usually starts with a n empty promise. Forget those people, jare." he explained frowning.
But then, one Thursday morning, they arrived—engineers. Real ones. Not those ones who wear slippers, shirtless as if they are heavy weight champions, and chew gums. These ones had helmets, tools, vests, correct leather boots, what's more, I even saw an ohibo man, as in, a foreigner, he looked like Chinese man. They climbed poles like Spider-Man. They bought new cables. They even painted the transformer! Still, we didn't clap, or jubilate, Nigeria had
"You dey play, ni. Sigh..." Mr. Williams, gave a long sigh, and rolled his eyes away from Mama Dele, as if he were a woman.
"Perhaps, Mama Dele might be right, let's just be optimistic, you never can tell," I said still feeling happy but without shining my teeth, though. Otherwise, Mama Dele would rain curses at me. In fact, this PHCN had really gotten to her skin. You dare not get too excited with her around otherwise you would receive an unexpected slap from behind and non-stop curses.
"I will believe it when my fan spins non-stop for one good hour," I muttered while standing with Mama Dele and Mr. Williams, half-laughing.
"It's a scam," my neighbor, Mr. Williams, barked at the landlord's meeting. "They want to collect money and disappear. These people think that we don't have sense, I know all there moves. It usually starts with a n empty promise. Forget those people, jare." he explained frowning.
But then, one Thursday morning, they arrived—engineers. Real ones. Not those ones who wear slippers, shirtless as if they are heavyweight champions, and chew gum. These ones had helmets, tools, vests, proper leather boots, what's more, I even saw an ohibo man, as in, a foreigner; he looked like a Chinese man. They climbed poles like Spider-Man. They brought new cables. They even painted the transformer! Still, we didn't clap, or jubilate; Nigeria had trained us well.
Weeks passed.
Then, on Monday morning, while I was still preparing for work, voices echoed from the other compound:
"Up NEPAAAA!"
It was 8:00 a.m.
We waited. Nobody moved.
One hour passed.
The light was still on.
Three hours. Still fully on.
No blinking, no half current, still very much on.
By 5:00 p.m., people had brought out old fridges that had not hummed in years. Children were watching cartoons without hearing "Off that television, we are using fuel!" Even Mama Dele, who always warned her children, "Do not plug in the iron, o!" was ironing three wrappers at once.
By 8:00 p.m., the environment was calm. No generator noise. No vibrations. No fumes. Just peace. I sat in front of my fan, staring at it like a woman meeting her firstborn for the first time.
Even our most skeptical neighbor, Mr. Williams—the same man who once yelled "Thunder fire PHCN!"—was now raining praises on the same PHCN and actually sipping alcohol sachet and smiling, as if he just won a visa lottery.
"We thank God," he said, adjusting his over sized shirt and stretching his feet forward on a bench. "This one pass miracle." He said still smiling.
That very night, I deliberately left all the bulbs on—not out of carelessness, but celebration. The entire estate glowed like Dubai. Everyone was really excited, no body wanted to be the first to switch anything off.
That's the day I truly understood the phrase, "when pigs fly."
Had anyone told me just a month before that we would have 24 hours of light—not from a generator, not from a rechargeable lantern, but real, uninterrupted power supply from the national grid—I would have thought they were absolutely joking.
However, pigs definitely flew. At least in Surulere.
And you know what?
They still do.
THANKS A LOT FOR READING ME
