I hate Lagos. I have always hated it. It is the home to
many: the rich in the island, the average in mainland,
and the poor in the slums like Ajegunle. Lagos is
overcrowded, which is one of the reasons I hate Lagos.
That particular day, I had just closed from office, a shop
that sells Mobile phones in computer village, and I was
walking to the bus-stop. The Obafemi Awolowo road
was crowded, and we, pedestrians, moved slowly
bumping into each other like ants. I usually kept my
wallet in my bag, to safeguard it. But that day, I forgot. I
kept it in my pocket, and then a smart chap, a pick
pocket tried his skills on me, and he got lucky. The guy,
he should be in his twenties, he was wearing a hooded
shirt, and his hair was styled in a dreadlock. He walked
along with me, and I remembered how he said that I was
an old secondary school mate. I don’t usually forget
faces, so I was sure he was lying. Because of that, I set
a trap for him.
“Sorry please, I must have missed your face. But we had
a good time at Jubril Martins,” I lied.
The chap was so naïve, and he fell into the trap.
“Yes, Jubril Martins, in Agege…Humani Street.”
I never schooled in Agege, so I was sure the guy had
ulterior motives. I furrowed my face with disapproval.
Before I could say anything else, he fell forward towards
me, and he fit me. He quickly pleaded for his action.
“You don’t need to apologize; after all you lost your
balance,”
He still apologized again. And he gave me his office
card afterwards. Like that, he was gone. My purse too,
but it wasn’t when I got to the bus stop did I got to
know he must have stolen my purse.
Fortunately, I met a co-worker at the bus stop and I
explained my ordeal. The best he could do was to give a
N500. At least that would get me home, but it means I
won’t have the luxury of boarding the expensive Danfo.
So I moved past the buses at the bus-stop towards the
highway for a sole. Sole are buses whose fares are
cheap. They don’t stay in a bus stop like their other
counterparts. They move from bus-stop to bus-stop
stealing ‘smart’ passenger who could quickly hop into
their vehicles before those rough bus tax collectors
popularly called, agberos, caught up with them.
I hadn’t stayed for long when a molue came along. I had
always hated a molue, but today, I wore a smile as soon
as I saw it. It was meant for people who wanted a ride,
trading their sitting comfortable for a cheap bus fare. A
molue is usually a Benz 911 model, with its seat
reconstructed so that it will accommodate more
passengers. In addition to that, most molues are rickety
which was the reason why Lagos state government was
planning to phase them out of the state.
So many pedestrians saw the molue too, and they
awaited it in anticipation. When it finally arrived, I had
to put up a fight as I struggled to find a way into the
bus. I was lucky to get a seat too. I sat on the poor
constructed seat, and I was wiggling myself to find
space for my legs. That was when I saw you. You were
smiling as you sat beside me. You looked more
comfortable than me, because you didn’t wiggle like I
did. Maybe it was your slender feminine shape that
made it more comfortable or something else, I didn’t
really take note.
Your smile showed your teeth. It wasn’t as white as
those painted on the toothpaste billboards. It was
brown. Mine too was brown, so I wasn’t really
disappointed. Anyway, your smile was charming and it
attracted me to you like a bee to nectar. I soon forgot I
was sitting uncomfortable.
I smiled too. And I brought out my phone, a Samsung
galaxy IV, hoping it will upsurge your attractions to me.
There was nothing much I could do on it; I had no active
internet subscription, but I still kept on pressing it
hoping it would make you fall prey. When I looked up, I
was disappointed. You had brought out your own phone
too, a BlackBerry Z30. I could hear the sounds of BBM
alerts as you chatted. I buried my disappointment on my
phone screen.
The molue was now full. About 40 people had the luxury
of sitting on the death traps called seats, while some 30
people stood in the middle of the molue, holding seat
handles for support. We started our journey.
I had not looked up after discovering your BlackBerry
Z30 phone, but when I heard your voice, like a canary
bird singing, I jerked and gazed at your face. I didn’t
hear what you were saying partly due to the molue’s
sound, but majorly because of my infatuation. My eyes
were buried on your lips painted with a red lipstick that
matched your fair skin. You must have repeated it like
thrice before I heard you,
“Do you know about BlackBerry hub,” you asked,
extending your Z30 to me.
“Yes,” I answered, collecting the phone from you. I was
stupid because I didn’t know about BlackBerry phones.
In fact, I hated them like Lagos.
“My Gmail isn’t synchronizing well,can you help me fix
it?” I heard your voice clearly now. It was thin, and it
sounded like it was tied with string. It threw me in a sea
of lust.
“Okay,” I handled your phone and browsed around it,
pretending to fix the problem, when in fact I knew I
couldn’t. “The problem must be from the BlackBerry
server,” I lied.
“Thank you,” you offered, collecting your phone from
me. You didn’t say any other word, and you continued
chatting on your phone. I was disappointed.
The journey had hit a stand-still around Dopemu, but I
didn’t notice it quickly because I was talking with you. I
looked outside the window trying to raise my
confidence.
Ask for her name.
My confidence wasn’t strong. I was still looking outside
the window, watching how a gala seller was sprinting
after a bus he wanted to sell something to.
If only this people could represent us in the Olympics,
Usain bolt’s reign would come to an end.
Ask for her name, she can’t bite you now. I felt my
confidence boost due to my thoughts. I looked at you.
You weren’t chatting on your phone again; instead, you
were looking at a smart chap, who was amongst the
standing passengers, trying to steal a wallet from
another passenger who was also standing.
The man who was about to be robbed was unaware and
he was looking somewhere else while the smart chap
inserted his right hand with great dexterity into the
man’s pocket.
I see you alarmed by the act, you were about to shout,
and I was quick to see your intended action. I moved to
stop you, but the molue swerved and my hands touched
your cleavage instead of your mouth. I was late. You
spoke.
“Ole, pickpocket, thieves,” You yelled, stretching to the
smart chap. He tried to remove his hands from the
pocket of his victim, but he wasn’t so fast. Eyes caught
him, and the other passengers took the words from your
mouth.
Ole, thief, barawo, you will die a miserable death this
year, yeye boi, the insults kept pouring in like water from
a waterfall. The smart chap, embarrassed, moved
backwards towards the one of the two entrances the
molue has.
“Who go allow you drop?” the conductor asked
rhetorically, “we go carry reach our garage, and chiamo
go carry punishment give you. Ole… barawo,” the
conductor insulted, opening his ten fingers and pointing
it towards him.
The smart chap sensing what was really in stock for him
did the most unimaginable thing; he jumped off the
moving molue. The molue sped on, and I stood to check
him through the back window, but the numerous heads
in the bus didn’t allow me see through.
“That guy will die a miserable death this year,” you
cursed. I set my gaze at you. I couldn’t believe you
could abuse, not to talk of cursing someone. Your
beauty had enchanted me, but those curse from your
mouth unbound the spell.
“Thank you,” the man who almost had his wallet stolen
thanked you.
You smiled at him and said, “Don’t mention.”
Meanwhile, I wasn’t looking at you again. I was looking
outside, seeing how other vehicles sped past the molue.
At first, it wasn’t a problem, but when the speed
grounded to a zero, the conductor jumped down and
announced we had a flat tire.
I quickly prayed they had a spare tire because most
commercial vehicles, particularly the Danfos and
molues don’t usually have spare tyres. The shout from
passenger confirmed the status of my prayer- it wasn’t
answered. There was no spare tyre.
Our molue began to cause a traffic jam, and it won’t be
long before the Lagos traffic dogs, Lastma, come along
to tow the molue. I saw you stood up, holding tight to
your Z30 in your right hand while you join the scores of
passengers as they rallied around the conductor for a
fare refund. I joined too.
There were shouts, brawls, arguments. In the end, I got
N40 out of the N100 I paid. I stood at the bus-stop,
waiting for another molue to enable me continue my
journey. I saw you too standing gracefully upon those
high heels that raised your hips. Your voluptuous curves
showing from the leggies cloth you wore. A Danfo came
along. Luckily for you, the Danfo stopped right near at
your front, and you made to enter it. Except, I see your
eyes bulging. Your mouth opened, and your fair facial
skin turned red. With a fast reflex, you move your hands
to your buttock clutching to the dagger inserted there.
I look around. I saw the smart chap, whom you caught
pickpocketing, disappearing amongst the numerous
heads. I wanted to shout, pursue him, but I remembered
that Lagos is no hero city. Everyone mind their own
business. I didn’t join the sympathetic crowds that
surrounded you as you slumped to the ground. I saw a
guy bent over you, trying to help remove the dagger. In
the same view, I see another person helping himself with
your Z30. I didn’t say a thing, I just walked on.
many: the rich in the island, the average in mainland,
and the poor in the slums like Ajegunle. Lagos is
overcrowded, which is one of the reasons I hate Lagos.
That particular day, I had just closed from office, a shop
that sells Mobile phones in computer village, and I was
walking to the bus-stop. The Obafemi Awolowo road
was crowded, and we, pedestrians, moved slowly
bumping into each other like ants. I usually kept my
wallet in my bag, to safeguard it. But that day, I forgot. I
kept it in my pocket, and then a smart chap, a pick
pocket tried his skills on me, and he got lucky. The guy,
he should be in his twenties, he was wearing a hooded
shirt, and his hair was styled in a dreadlock. He walked
along with me, and I remembered how he said that I was
an old secondary school mate. I don’t usually forget
faces, so I was sure he was lying. Because of that, I set
a trap for him.
“Sorry please, I must have missed your face. But we had
a good time at Jubril Martins,” I lied.
The chap was so naïve, and he fell into the trap.
“Yes, Jubril Martins, in Agege…Humani Street.”
I never schooled in Agege, so I was sure the guy had
ulterior motives. I furrowed my face with disapproval.
Before I could say anything else, he fell forward towards
me, and he fit me. He quickly pleaded for his action.
“You don’t need to apologize; after all you lost your
balance,”
He still apologized again. And he gave me his office
card afterwards. Like that, he was gone. My purse too,
but it wasn’t when I got to the bus stop did I got to
know he must have stolen my purse.
Fortunately, I met a co-worker at the bus stop and I
explained my ordeal. The best he could do was to give a
N500. At least that would get me home, but it means I
won’t have the luxury of boarding the expensive Danfo.
So I moved past the buses at the bus-stop towards the
highway for a sole. Sole are buses whose fares are
cheap. They don’t stay in a bus stop like their other
counterparts. They move from bus-stop to bus-stop
stealing ‘smart’ passenger who could quickly hop into
their vehicles before those rough bus tax collectors
popularly called, agberos, caught up with them.
I hadn’t stayed for long when a molue came along. I had
always hated a molue, but today, I wore a smile as soon
as I saw it. It was meant for people who wanted a ride,
trading their sitting comfortable for a cheap bus fare. A
molue is usually a Benz 911 model, with its seat
reconstructed so that it will accommodate more
passengers. In addition to that, most molues are rickety
which was the reason why Lagos state government was
planning to phase them out of the state.
So many pedestrians saw the molue too, and they
awaited it in anticipation. When it finally arrived, I had
to put up a fight as I struggled to find a way into the
bus. I was lucky to get a seat too. I sat on the poor
constructed seat, and I was wiggling myself to find
space for my legs. That was when I saw you. You were
smiling as you sat beside me. You looked more
comfortable than me, because you didn’t wiggle like I
did. Maybe it was your slender feminine shape that
made it more comfortable or something else, I didn’t
really take note.
Your smile showed your teeth. It wasn’t as white as
those painted on the toothpaste billboards. It was
brown. Mine too was brown, so I wasn’t really
disappointed. Anyway, your smile was charming and it
attracted me to you like a bee to nectar. I soon forgot I
was sitting uncomfortable.
I smiled too. And I brought out my phone, a Samsung
galaxy IV, hoping it will upsurge your attractions to me.
There was nothing much I could do on it; I had no active
internet subscription, but I still kept on pressing it
hoping it would make you fall prey. When I looked up, I
was disappointed. You had brought out your own phone
too, a BlackBerry Z30. I could hear the sounds of BBM
alerts as you chatted. I buried my disappointment on my
phone screen.
The molue was now full. About 40 people had the luxury
of sitting on the death traps called seats, while some 30
people stood in the middle of the molue, holding seat
handles for support. We started our journey.
I had not looked up after discovering your BlackBerry
Z30 phone, but when I heard your voice, like a canary
bird singing, I jerked and gazed at your face. I didn’t
hear what you were saying partly due to the molue’s
sound, but majorly because of my infatuation. My eyes
were buried on your lips painted with a red lipstick that
matched your fair skin. You must have repeated it like
thrice before I heard you,
“Do you know about BlackBerry hub,” you asked,
extending your Z30 to me.
“Yes,” I answered, collecting the phone from you. I was
stupid because I didn’t know about BlackBerry phones.
In fact, I hated them like Lagos.
“My Gmail isn’t synchronizing well,can you help me fix
it?” I heard your voice clearly now. It was thin, and it
sounded like it was tied with string. It threw me in a sea
of lust.
“Okay,” I handled your phone and browsed around it,
pretending to fix the problem, when in fact I knew I
couldn’t. “The problem must be from the BlackBerry
server,” I lied.
“Thank you,” you offered, collecting your phone from
me. You didn’t say any other word, and you continued
chatting on your phone. I was disappointed.
The journey had hit a stand-still around Dopemu, but I
didn’t notice it quickly because I was talking with you. I
looked outside the window trying to raise my
confidence.
Ask for her name.
My confidence wasn’t strong. I was still looking outside
the window, watching how a gala seller was sprinting
after a bus he wanted to sell something to.
If only this people could represent us in the Olympics,
Usain bolt’s reign would come to an end.
Ask for her name, she can’t bite you now. I felt my
confidence boost due to my thoughts. I looked at you.
You weren’t chatting on your phone again; instead, you
were looking at a smart chap, who was amongst the
standing passengers, trying to steal a wallet from
another passenger who was also standing.
The man who was about to be robbed was unaware and
he was looking somewhere else while the smart chap
inserted his right hand with great dexterity into the
man’s pocket.
I see you alarmed by the act, you were about to shout,
and I was quick to see your intended action. I moved to
stop you, but the molue swerved and my hands touched
your cleavage instead of your mouth. I was late. You
spoke.
“Ole, pickpocket, thieves,” You yelled, stretching to the
smart chap. He tried to remove his hands from the
pocket of his victim, but he wasn’t so fast. Eyes caught
him, and the other passengers took the words from your
mouth.
Ole, thief, barawo, you will die a miserable death this
year, yeye boi, the insults kept pouring in like water from
a waterfall. The smart chap, embarrassed, moved
backwards towards the one of the two entrances the
molue has.
“Who go allow you drop?” the conductor asked
rhetorically, “we go carry reach our garage, and chiamo
go carry punishment give you. Ole… barawo,” the
conductor insulted, opening his ten fingers and pointing
it towards him.
The smart chap sensing what was really in stock for him
did the most unimaginable thing; he jumped off the
moving molue. The molue sped on, and I stood to check
him through the back window, but the numerous heads
in the bus didn’t allow me see through.
“That guy will die a miserable death this year,” you
cursed. I set my gaze at you. I couldn’t believe you
could abuse, not to talk of cursing someone. Your
beauty had enchanted me, but those curse from your
mouth unbound the spell.
“Thank you,” the man who almost had his wallet stolen
thanked you.
You smiled at him and said, “Don’t mention.”
Meanwhile, I wasn’t looking at you again. I was looking
outside, seeing how other vehicles sped past the molue.
At first, it wasn’t a problem, but when the speed
grounded to a zero, the conductor jumped down and
announced we had a flat tire.
I quickly prayed they had a spare tire because most
commercial vehicles, particularly the Danfos and
molues don’t usually have spare tyres. The shout from
passenger confirmed the status of my prayer- it wasn’t
answered. There was no spare tyre.
Our molue began to cause a traffic jam, and it won’t be
long before the Lagos traffic dogs, Lastma, come along
to tow the molue. I saw you stood up, holding tight to
your Z30 in your right hand while you join the scores of
passengers as they rallied around the conductor for a
fare refund. I joined too.
There were shouts, brawls, arguments. In the end, I got
N40 out of the N100 I paid. I stood at the bus-stop,
waiting for another molue to enable me continue my
journey. I saw you too standing gracefully upon those
high heels that raised your hips. Your voluptuous curves
showing from the leggies cloth you wore. A Danfo came
along. Luckily for you, the Danfo stopped right near at
your front, and you made to enter it. Except, I see your
eyes bulging. Your mouth opened, and your fair facial
skin turned red. With a fast reflex, you move your hands
to your buttock clutching to the dagger inserted there.
I look around. I saw the smart chap, whom you caught
pickpocketing, disappearing amongst the numerous
heads. I wanted to shout, pursue him, but I remembered
that Lagos is no hero city. Everyone mind their own
business. I didn’t join the sympathetic crowds that
surrounded you as you slumped to the ground. I saw a
guy bent over you, trying to help remove the dagger. In
the same view, I see another person helping himself with
your Z30. I didn’t say a thing, I just walked on.
Nice one!
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