One Kind Lagos Bus Ride

“My sister, no vex; abeg make you help me hold dis.” Eyes, bloodshot from Marijuana, excessive alcohol and untreated malaria glared at me, daring me to refuse.

            I collected the thin raffia twine – exactly the kind used in dragging a goat to its death – and held it across my chest.

“God go bless you, my sister. Na dis Road Safety people. Dem no go gree make pesin rest.”

My mind screamed, which Road Safety people? How much do seat belts cost? 

I took a deep breath and got ready to verbalise my strong thoughts. My eyes caught the heavily tattooed and multi-pierced picture of Mike Tyson, fiercely staring at me from the driver’s skinny biceps; daring me to oppose his number one Naija fan and face the consequences. I held the words in my mouth and tried to remember some wise sayings to justify my silence.

Silence is golden. Silence is the best answer for a fool. In a multitude of words, sin lacketh not. No, I am not a coward, I am not afraid, I am wise.

The passenger beside me coughed violently, stretched his body across mine, and spat phlegm out the window. I waited for apologies or an “excuse me,” but none was forthcoming.

He must have done it intentionally.

We had stood together for almost thirty minutes, waiting for a bus and I had rushed ahead and opened the bus front door, when one came.  That singular act had entitled me to the luxury of the window seat. 

“Madam, the man should stay by the window,” he said. 

I pretended as if I did not hear him and looked the other way, holding the rickety door, waiting patiently for him to enter.

“If una no want enter car, make una comot naw, naw! Passenger dey, dey beg to enter, una dey struggle for who must to sit for window. Bus na your papa house? Make una no waste my time o!” the conductor shouted angrily while facing me and ignoring him.

He grudgingly got the message that I was not ready to budge and entered the bus.  His seat was elevated above mine on his left and the driver’s on his right. The heat from whatever lifted the iron underneath him warmed his buttocks intensely – only a plank and a torn out sponge served as cushion.   The bulky gear set sat in-between his legs. One leg pressed against mine and the other shared the accelerator and break space with the driver’s two legs. Intermittently, the driver hit him with the back of his left hand, a signal that he was disturbing his driving by relaxing too much and should sit up.

“Oya, everybody hold your correct money. I no get change o!” The conductor said. 

I ignored the order and tried to focus my attention on the newspaper spread in front of me. Then, I smelled his breath and felt it uncomfortably close to my neck as he stared at the page I was reading.

This neighbour of mine!

Now, they know me at home. I started reading newspaper cartoons at a very young age and, I have never liked to share whatever I am reading with anybody. I would rather they wait for me to finish, and I give them to read. Do not come to sit or lie down beside me to read along and plead with me not to turn to the next page when I am ready to. 

My first instinct was to close the newspaper and give him to read, but it was an interesting piece of news. So, I relaxed and let him be.

“Fine babe wey dey read paper. Wetin you want know again, ehn? You don fine finish, now. Abi you want come add book on top of say you fine?” he said, smiling and trying to look into my eyes.

Can’t someone have a moment of peace on this bus?

“Sister, you dey read paper? You don trowey your seat belt?” the driver bellowed at me.

He lost focus of his driving as he bent double, stretched his hands, and fished around the floor of the passenger side, frantically searching for the goat twine.

“Here, I have it.”

“Abeg, hold am well well! I no get money to give Road Safety o.”

I handed the newspaper to my neighbour. At least that would keep him quiet until either of us alighted. He took the newspaper and folding it, kept it on his thighs.

“So wetin be your name?” he asked.

The conversation was interrupted – thankfully – as we approached a police check point, and the driver’s countenance and voice became animated.

“My brother!” he said, bringing out both hands to shake the police officer on duty.

“Who be your brother?” the police officer retorted. “I resemble people from your area? You see your tribal marks for my face?”

“Oga mi, that one no matter. As long as say na inside this Naija country we dey together, shuffering and shmiling as our Baba Fela talk, na my brother you be.”

The driver’s teeth were surprisingly sparkling white for the colour of his eyes. They seemed a lot more than thirty-six in number, and there were particles of yellowish food stuck in between his pre-molars. A large cut of vegetables was stuck on his upper canine. A good sign – if you ask me – that he ate healthy and did not subsist on the saccharin sweetened snacks and drinks peddled along his route.

“Abeg, shake body.” The police officer looked away as he spoke. His voice was lowered and flippant, as if he was saying something unimportant. Only the gun, pointed at the driver’s chest, showed he was not joking.

“Shake body again for this morning?” the driver said laughing. He switched off the engine.

We are in for a long negotiation.

“My brother, I don see una as I pass here before.” Both hands were spread on his steering wheels in supplication. “I no go lie for you.”

 “Who be una?” The policeman was angry. “Was it me you saw this morning?”

Silence.

“Answer me now.”

“Na your second I see. See am there ask am.” He pointed at another police officer who sat on a bench by the edge of the road, eating roasted corn and pear.

A young girl of about eight years old stood peeling oranges for him. Her tray of unsold oranges was by her feet.  The policeman was looking at us, but when the driver pointed at him, he looked away and munched even more furiously, staring at the empty road far ahead.

“Am I my second? So, if I want to do business with you, I go begin talk with your conductor, how you go like am? My second na me? Na me wey you see this morning?”He pronounced morning as ‘morrring’, in an annoying way of imitating the Whiteman.

A cleaner in my office does that and it is so irritating. He acquired an “American accent” after he cleaned the house ofan expatriate staff for six months.

“Good morrring,” he announces, every morning since then, trying to act pleasant in that distant, uncaring sort of way that most White expatriates do with local staff.

I have since taken to avoiding him in the mornings.

“Oga mi, abeg next time. I no get anything for my hand now.” He fished round his dashboard, pushing my neighbour’s right leg roughly.

“Heiiii!” my neighbor squealed as his leg hit the gear. “Oga driver, easy abeg.”

Finding two pieces of kolanut of the yellow variety, the driver presented it to the officer and smiled broadly.

“At all, at all worse pass, my brother. Hold this one until I come back.”

Infuriated, the police officer hit the driver’s door with the blunt edge of his gun.

“Oya, clear for road and park,” he said, pointing to the side of the road.

“Driver, what is this? Give them what they want and let us get out of here. I am already running late for an interview,” an elderly man seated behind me shouted.

Other passengers got upset with the driver.

“He should ‘settle’,” they said. “And leave the police officers with their troubles.”

The driver parked by the side of the road, got down, and went towards the officer seated on a bench. On sighting the approaching driver, he got up, walked towards the road, and stopped a private car. He completely ignored the driver’s entreaties and focused his attention on scrutinising the documents presented by the car driver.

Two male passengers got down from our bus and approached the first officer. They spoke in low tones, but the officer could be heard shouting.

“I no be troublemaker. I don’t have any business with you. He knows the right thing to do. Go and tell him to do it. Nonsense. He think say I be small pikin?”

The passengers went to the driver. I saw one give him a hundred naira note, which he went on to give to the police officer. Both men shook hands and exchanged banters.

Returning to his seat, the driver tried to start the engine, but it would not. He tried about ten times, but it only made a cracking sound and died.

“Make una comot, abeg. We need to push the car.”

I should have known. Although “God Safe this Jorney” was painted boldly in red on the front and rear sides of the bus, there was no guarantee of a safe journey for the passengers.

All the passengers disembarked. The women stood idly and watched as the men pushed the bus. I felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps my neighbour was right. I should have let him, as the man, sit by the window. See how he is ripping his muscles apart to save the day. I pushed the guilty thoughts aside with a reminder of the gross discomforts of his seat.

The car finally started, and the driver drove almost half a kilometre down the road before he could control his speed and stop for us to enter. 

I had barely settled in when hands dug into my back, almost scratching my skin. I winced in pain and turned.

“Madam, wey your money?” The conductor’s voice was threatening, as if his shouting would intimidate me into making payment.

“Easy now. Do you have to wound me to collect your money?”  I quietly spoke, not wanting to draw even the slightest attention to myself.

“Wetin?” He shouted even louder.

Silence.

“Wetin you talk just now, ehn?”

Silence.

“Talk am again make I hear, if you no fear?”

Silence.

His ponmo-sized, charcoal-coloured lips hung open for about ten seconds, forming an irregularly shaped O. His head was slanted to one side and thrown back, while his eyes – filled with anger caused by years of hardship and suffering – stared menacingly.

“Listen, no try me o! Bring your money now, now!”

I gave him a one-thousand-naira note.

“Mscheewwwwww,” he hissed furiously.

I had not heard such deep, almost violent hissing in a very long while – not since one of my childhood friends was publicly humiliated by an army officer for daring to refuse his request for a relationship.  While relating the story later, she could only hiss out her frustrations amidst tears.

“My brother, bring your money, abeg,” he was addressing my neighbour.

My hand was left hanging awkwardly and embarrassingly across my back, still holding the note.

 Neighbour fished out two crumply one hundred naira notes and patting my arms – or rather stroking them – announced triumphantly to the bus that he was going to take care of my fare.

“Thank your God say na better pesin sit beside you today. You for see am for my hand,”the conductor said, hissing at me as he turned to harass a lady seated behind.

I turned to say “Thank you,” to Neighbour, but he held my right hand tightly and, heaving his left side up, fished out a Nokia 3310 from his back pocket. The rear of the phone was horizontally held together with a brown rubber band. Vertically, green and orange rubber bands held the bulky battery and what appeared like an antennae in place. The numbers were scratched off; he alone knew how to locate his numbers and alphabets. I had never seen a more defaced phone.

“Wetin be your name and number?”

His voice had taken on a new manly, I-am-in-charge tone.

“Gala! Psssttttttt Gala!” I beckoned on a hawker of the preservative dense beef sausage rolls that I quit eating years ago.

Hurriedly, I picked out one without characteristically scrutinising it for moulds, softness, or size of beef filling.  Then, I showed the one thousand naira note to the hawker who produced my change. I made sure I clenched it tightly before releasing his payment.  

Selecting a clean one hundred naira note from the change, I gave it to Neighbour and said a polite, “Thank you.”

            Kpoa! Kpoa! Gunshots rent the air.

“Na armed robbers o!” shouted the driver as he screeched to a halt.

“Amu roba! Na thief o!” I heard the conductor scream.

There was no time to know the actual location of the robbery. Neighbour pushed the door open and pushed me out as he ran towards a bungalow across the street. I ran after him, barefooted. 

“They just snatched a car from a woman down the road,” someone volunteered.

“At least them no kidnap am,” another said, gratitude showing through her voice.

“Or even kill am self,” said a woman who lived in the compound and was bathing her baby outside when the commotion started. The baby was covered all over with soap suds and was crying loudly. 

The gun shots died down, and people began to emerge from their safety places. Cars roughly parked and left open were being driven off. Pedestrians continued on their way. Roadside traders were the first to re-emerge, lest someone do away with their goods.

I picked up one of my shoes from the drainage. I had left the other inside the bus.

We re-entered the bus. The driver was laughing at how the conductor somersaulted over a tomato seller’s table.

“I no know say you like life like this o!”

Most passengers joined in the laughter and conversation.

“The problem is that I have missed my interview,” said the elderly man.

“Instead of you to be thanking God that you are alive,” a woman with a baby tied to her back said. “If they had killed you, what would your wife and children have done?”

“That job does not belong to you, my brother,” another passenger cautioned him. “This thing that happened is a sign that only bad things would have happened to you if you had met up with the interview and passed. That is the way me I see life.”

“No be person wey dey alive go work?” the conductor asked as he straightened the dirty naira notes in his hands. “Abeg Driver, you get Eedris music? Play am for me abeg.”

Nigeria, jaga jaga. Everything scatter, scatter

Poor man dey suffer, suffer    

Gbosaa! Gbosaa. Gun shots in a the air!

“Gbosaa! Gbosaaa!” All the passengers screamed and laughed heartily.

“This one we saw today na small thing,” said another passenger from behind. “Last week, in front of me, they kidnapped one woman and her three-day-old baby. The husband was bringing her home from the hospital after her delivery. They said she is the daughter of Otunba Lekan Olaniran. Even the car they used to carry the woman, na dat morning they tear the rubber comot from am, brand new limited edition, special order from Mercedes Benz Company—”

“Chaii!” screamed the woman with the baby on her back.

“This our Nigeria sef,” muttered another passenger, sighing as he called on a plantain chips and “pure water” hawker.
            “The husband lost his mind. He was pursuing after the kidnappers with leg, calling them to come and take the car. He had the car keys in his hands and was running after them, weeping like a baby.”
            “Chaii! Which kind life be this?”  screamed the womanagain.The baby on her back began to cry.
            “My beloved brothers and sisters,” a voice said. The voice carried authority with it.

The bus became quiet, and the driver reached to decrease the volume.

“Have I knows always come last.”

That must be the man wearing a short sleeved burgundy double-breasted jacket over a pink long necked cardigan. I cannot remember the colour of his pants.

He had a huge black leather Bible with him and had been waving it in the air and screaming, “Obara Jesus! Obara Jesus!”as we all ran from the gunshots.
             “Yes, my brethren. Have I knows will has come to some of us here if armed robber kill somebody here. Hellfire is real. Repent and be save for now has the time.” He was screaming now. “For no one knoweth the time of his die. Repent and be save from hell.” He increased his voice even more. 

“Oya, everybody dis na final bus stop,” the conductor screamed louder than the preacher.

It was not the initially announced stop, but the walk should be no more than ten minutes. I did not mind. Some passengers chose to pick fights with the driver and the conductor, refusing to alight from the bus and insisting on being taken to the agreed destination. The driver switched off his engine and put the key in his pocket. The conductor stepped away from the bus and began to shout and call on new passengers to board for the return journey. 

For me, I was happy to have come to the end of this one kind Lagos bus ride.