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Lagos Bus Driver, Conductor and A Solider

Literature 1 day ago
  • User
    Hollyg
    1 day ago
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    Keeping a thug free and sane Lagos State has been the holy grail of past leaders.
    The city is littered with young men who move like GPS devices without a functioning compass.
    One of them approached a bus — a stick in one hand, a bundle of hurriedly folded notes in the other. Between his thick, dark lips hung a sachet of gin, held in place by the strength of his yellow-painted teeth. He seemed to breathe through the narrow gap between his lips, from which a thread of whitish saliva dangled.
    Around his neck was a heavy chain — the kind that gleamed like it had been stolen from another man’s neck of misfortune.
    “Greetings,” Lagos air whispered to me — embroidered with the stale scent of cigarettes, cheap gin, raw sewage, and exhaust fumes. Lagos is like a convicted man; even a presidential pardon won’t change him.
    A few minutes after I stood by the roadside, a yellow-painted bus screeched to a stop. The conductor leapt down and vanished into the crowd, dragging unwilling passersby toward the bus like a fisherman casting his net.
    “Ahua! Make we dey go na,” the driver shouted, motioning for me to take the front seat.
    In Lagos, if there’s a man to work, there’s always a client to pay. Within three minutes, the bus was full.
    “Ahua, wehdone o,” the driver greeted me again. By the fiftieth time, I realized it wasn’t courtesy — it was fear wrapped in respect.
    “Your money,” the conductor demanded, collecting fares with the aggression of a tax officer. He looked rude too.
    When I stretched out my hand to pay, a wave of surprise — and mild fear — swept through the conductor and the passengers. When I insisted, he reluctantly accepted the fare.
    That was when I noticed something.
    My presence in uniform on the front seat was a shield for the driver.
    The agbero boys — those self-appointed road lords — kept their distance, glaring at me with the kind of disdain that hides grudging respect.
    One approached us, raised his two hands into the air while stamping his left foot into the earth, raising dust and lowering his brain.
    “Federal!” he hailed.
    “Hundred police no reach one soja,” he added, his hands still raised like a loyalist before his god.
    He didn’t stop until I slid a hundred-naira note into his dirty palm — careful not to let our skins touch.
    There is this unholy relationship between Lagos commercial drivers and uniformed personnel.
    In biology, it’s called symbiosis.
    After what felt like an endless drive, I alighted at my stop. I caught the disappointment in the driver’s eyes — my absence meant just one thing: he would have to pay his way through the next stops.
    With my right hand pressing my phone deep into my pocket, I walked past the barrier as the familiar chorus of “Good morning, sir!” rose from the guards.
    Their greetings sounded rehearsed, but they carried something Lagos never runs out of — survival.
    Behind me, the city coughed, cursed, and kept moving.

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