Oliha will be back this week, but not in time for today’s column deadline! He will have plenty of tales to tell you about his long visit to Nigeria, but I’m going to preempt him and tell you one. Let’s call it the Case of the Devious Driver.

For those of you who haven’t traveled there, Nigerian driving has to be seen to be believed. For decades there’s been no speed limit; if there’s one now, it’s honored in the breach. Most cars on the open road are doing 120 km/hr. What is that, about 80 mph? Drivers are often highly skilled, but take huge risks. Think Italy x four, then add to the mix cars and heavy lorries whose brakes aren’t working, or drivers willing to take the wrong side of the road just to cut out tortoise-like cars in a traffic holdup.

Most Americans wouldn’t think of driving in urban Nigerian conditions. Oliha doesn’t plan on it either, but he did plan on getting a driver’s license. After all, a second form of ID is handy; you don’t always want to take your passport with you to the grocery store. What’s the Nigerian driver’s test like, you say? Ah, my dear—which kine question be dat? Make you wan kill me? Oliha used “long leg”; that is, with contacts and a willingness to grease the wheels only a little, no test was necessary! Not that should be particularly worrisome to anyone on the road in his case--Oliha knows how to drive, after all, and knows enough not to want to do so in Nigeria!

Like most big men, he's had a professional driver to take him round. He treated him well, only to find out his trust had been abused. Giving the driver dollars to exchange—because you have to be cautious about doing such things yourself, since it’s hard to know who’s watching you, making assumptions that the roll of Kleenex in your pocket is actually a roll of hundred dollar bills. The driver was AWOL for a few days, and Oliha’s host supplied a stand-in. The new fellow returned from currency exchange with a much fatter wad of banknotes, and his predecessor’s skimming was exposed.

A brouhaha resulted, naturally enough, and was neatly sorted out; shame, the fear of God, and specific measures dealt with the miscreant, who will be paying the money back in installments. It is always refreshing to me to hear of how such cases can be settled. The household discusses the matter thoroughly, a traditional man and his friends or colleagues consult, and justice is meted out, an example being set.

Is there a potential for abuse? Sure! As there is by the police, or MPs, etc. But there is also an opportunity to show wisdom and to do so without abrogating one’s authority and waiting weeks or months for a petty case to come to trial. Being a traditional ruler, a chief, or a head of household involves training in people management and Solomonic decisions, and they are frequently accomplished with elegant dispatch.

I will let Oliha tell you more of the “trial” in a future column, with his own commentary on justice (which in this case included the seizing of a new cell phone, shoes, and other goods). And while we wait for him to do so, please ask yourself if you could be an arbiter of justice—and how far would mercy temper it?

--Tamsin Barzane