In this Lagos ehn, anything can happen on a bus. Sometimes, God’s blessings come dressed as strangers sitting next to you, and that's why I say,
"Try dey gist with your fellow passenger once in a while. You never can tell when your miracle will come from."
Last week, after a long day at work, I joined the crowd of struggling Nigerians under the Ikeja bridge, waiting for a bus. The sky was already grumbling with thunder like it was about to vex and pour down rain. I knew I had to get home fast. My best shirt was drying outside, and my yeye brother wouldn’t even think of bringing it in for me.
"Ojuelegba, Stadium, Barracks, Costain!"
One conductor shouted as a danfo bus rattled to a stop. The bus looked like it had seen better days, but in that moment, who had time to inspect? The struggle to get in was like a war zone—office women, suited-up men, everyone shoving and pushing like it was a free-for-all. As expected, I got pushed aside, but a man in a clean white shirt and black trousers pulled me back and helped me secure the last seat in the front row.
"Thank you, sir," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. "This is Lagos, my guy. You must be sharp. How you go just let women push you like that? No be man you be?"
I chuckled at his banter. "Oga, I strong o. I just dey respect..."
"Respect women, abi?" He interrupted, laughing. "You dey respect so tey dem don tear your shirt."
I looked down in shock. My shirt—the one my girlfriend bought for me—was ripped at the shoulder, my singlet peeking through. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, my phone buzzed with a text from my girlfriend.
"Baby, I’m sorry," the message read. "I’ve tried, but I don’t think there’s a future for us. Please take care of yourself. I’m done."
Imagine receiving that kind of message while you’re on a bus with a torn shirt. I couldn’t believe it. But before I could even process it, the bus made a sudden stop near Fadeyi. The conductor and driver got out, scratching their heads. It was obvious—the fuel had finished. Lagos struggle no dey tire person?
The man beside me turned and pulled out his phone, showing me pictures of sleek shirts on his Samsung Galaxy Fold. I blinked. This guy clearly wasn’t an average danfo passenger. Maybe he was working for a big man or something.
"These are some shirts my daughter is selling. You fit buy from her," he said.
I checked the prices. "59k for one shirt?" I laughed nervously. "Sir, that fit buy me wardrobe for Oshodi market now."
"Oh, I thought you said you strong man," he teased. "But, anyway, how much be your salary?"
"65k, sir," I replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Ha! Na wa o. And from that you still pay for transport?"
"Yes, sir. They give me 5k allowance."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "You be computer literate?"
"Yes, sir."
"BSc or HND?"
"HND."
"Good. There’s a spot open in my office, and I think you could fit in. Drop your Instagram handle; I’ll send you a message with my WhatsApp link. And, pick any five shirts you like. They’ll deliver them to your house tomorrow."
My eyes widened. Sharp guy that I am, I immediately opened Instagram and shared my handle. Seconds later, I saw his message. I checked his profile, and let’s just say, this man was not a small somebody. He had G-Wagon pictures, company events—you name it. Why was someone like this on a danfo?
As if reading my thoughts, he smiled.
"I know say you wan ask plenty questions. Just hold them. I have heard them before. I also sent my daughter’s contact too; she’s single, and well-behaved. By the way, what's your name?"
"My....my....my na...name is Akintomiwa Aromire, sir."
"I am Dr. Akeju. And I love to help young and vibrant youth like you."
"Are you single?"
There was no time to process my response.
"No sir, I am very single."
I was speechless. The driver couldn’t fix the bus, so I was standing there, just waiting, not even bothering to argue with the conductor. I saw the man talking on the phone. I decided to wait a little more.
"My driver is nearby. If you’re patient, he can give you a lift,"
he offered. I don’t know what came over me—I just went over and hugged him. Minutes later, his G-Wagon pulled up, and we cruised off.
Long story short, I now work as one of his assistants, 180k pay plus some unannounced training and transport allowance.
And just last night, I had dinner date with his daughter, Adesewa. Beautiful as the name sounds.
When your helper arrives, e go be like dream. Only you go just dey shout,
"Na wa o! My helper too do o!"
"Try dey gist with your fellow passenger once in a while. You never can tell when your miracle will come from."
Last week, after a long day at work, I joined the crowd of struggling Nigerians under the Ikeja bridge, waiting for a bus. The sky was already grumbling with thunder like it was about to vex and pour down rain. I knew I had to get home fast. My best shirt was drying outside, and my yeye brother wouldn’t even think of bringing it in for me.
"Ojuelegba, Stadium, Barracks, Costain!"
One conductor shouted as a danfo bus rattled to a stop. The bus looked like it had seen better days, but in that moment, who had time to inspect? The struggle to get in was like a war zone—office women, suited-up men, everyone shoving and pushing like it was a free-for-all. As expected, I got pushed aside, but a man in a clean white shirt and black trousers pulled me back and helped me secure the last seat in the front row.
"Thank you, sir," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. "This is Lagos, my guy. You must be sharp. How you go just let women push you like that? No be man you be?"
I chuckled at his banter. "Oga, I strong o. I just dey respect..."
"Respect women, abi?" He interrupted, laughing. "You dey respect so tey dem don tear your shirt."
I looked down in shock. My shirt—the one my girlfriend bought for me—was ripped at the shoulder, my singlet peeking through. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, my phone buzzed with a text from my girlfriend.
"Baby, I’m sorry," the message read. "I’ve tried, but I don’t think there’s a future for us. Please take care of yourself. I’m done."
Imagine receiving that kind of message while you’re on a bus with a torn shirt. I couldn’t believe it. But before I could even process it, the bus made a sudden stop near Fadeyi. The conductor and driver got out, scratching their heads. It was obvious—the fuel had finished. Lagos struggle no dey tire person?
The man beside me turned and pulled out his phone, showing me pictures of sleek shirts on his Samsung Galaxy Fold. I blinked. This guy clearly wasn’t an average danfo passenger. Maybe he was working for a big man or something.
"These are some shirts my daughter is selling. You fit buy from her," he said.
I checked the prices. "59k for one shirt?" I laughed nervously. "Sir, that fit buy me wardrobe for Oshodi market now."
"Oh, I thought you said you strong man," he teased. "But, anyway, how much be your salary?"
"65k, sir," I replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Ha! Na wa o. And from that you still pay for transport?"
"Yes, sir. They give me 5k allowance."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "You be computer literate?"
"Yes, sir."
"BSc or HND?"
"HND."
"Good. There’s a spot open in my office, and I think you could fit in. Drop your Instagram handle; I’ll send you a message with my WhatsApp link. And, pick any five shirts you like. They’ll deliver them to your house tomorrow."
My eyes widened. Sharp guy that I am, I immediately opened Instagram and shared my handle. Seconds later, I saw his message. I checked his profile, and let’s just say, this man was not a small somebody. He had G-Wagon pictures, company events—you name it. Why was someone like this on a danfo?
As if reading my thoughts, he smiled.
"I know say you wan ask plenty questions. Just hold them. I have heard them before. I also sent my daughter’s contact too; she’s single, and well-behaved. By the way, what's your name?"
"My....my....my na...name is Akintomiwa Aromire, sir."
"I am Dr. Akeju. And I love to help young and vibrant youth like you."
"Are you single?"
There was no time to process my response.
"No sir, I am very single."
I was speechless. The driver couldn’t fix the bus, so I was standing there, just waiting, not even bothering to argue with the conductor. I saw the man talking on the phone. I decided to wait a little more.
"My driver is nearby. If you’re patient, he can give you a lift,"
he offered. I don’t know what came over me—I just went over and hugged him. Minutes later, his G-Wagon pulled up, and we cruised off.
Long story short, I now work as one of his assistants, 180k pay plus some unannounced training and transport allowance.
And just last night, I had dinner date with his daughter, Adesewa. Beautiful as the name sounds.
When your helper arrives, e go be like dream. Only you go just dey shout,
"Na wa o! My helper too do o!"
In this Lagos ehn, anything can happen on a bus. Sometimes, God’s blessings come dressed as strangers sitting next to you, and that's why I say,
"Try dey gist with your fellow passenger once in a while. You never can tell when your miracle will come from."
Last week, after a long day at work, I joined the crowd of struggling Nigerians under the Ikeja bridge, waiting for a bus. The sky was already grumbling with thunder like it was about to vex and pour down rain. I knew I had to get home fast. My best shirt was drying outside, and my yeye brother wouldn’t even think of bringing it in for me.
"Ojuelegba, Stadium, Barracks, Costain!"
One conductor shouted as a danfo bus rattled to a stop. The bus looked like it had seen better days, but in that moment, who had time to inspect? The struggle to get in was like a war zone—office women, suited-up men, everyone shoving and pushing like it was a free-for-all. As expected, I got pushed aside, but a man in a clean white shirt and black trousers pulled me back and helped me secure the last seat in the front row.
"Thank you, sir," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. "This is Lagos, my guy. You must be sharp. How you go just let women push you like that? No be man you be?"
I chuckled at his banter. "Oga, I strong o. I just dey respect..."
"Respect women, abi?" He interrupted, laughing. "You dey respect so tey dem don tear your shirt."
I looked down in shock. My shirt—the one my girlfriend bought for me—was ripped at the shoulder, my singlet peeking through. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, my phone buzzed with a text from my girlfriend.
"Baby, I’m sorry," the message read. "I’ve tried, but I don’t think there’s a future for us. Please take care of yourself. I’m done."
Imagine receiving that kind of message while you’re on a bus with a torn shirt. I couldn’t believe it. But before I could even process it, the bus made a sudden stop near Fadeyi. The conductor and driver got out, scratching their heads. It was obvious—the fuel had finished. Lagos struggle no dey tire person?
The man beside me turned and pulled out his phone, showing me pictures of sleek shirts on his Samsung Galaxy Fold. I blinked. This guy clearly wasn’t an average danfo passenger. Maybe he was working for a big man or something.
"These are some shirts my daughter is selling. You fit buy from her," he said.
I checked the prices. "59k for one shirt?" I laughed nervously. "Sir, that fit buy me wardrobe for Oshodi market now."
"Oh, I thought you said you strong man," he teased. "But, anyway, how much be your salary?"
"65k, sir," I replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Ha! Na wa o. And from that you still pay for transport?"
"Yes, sir. They give me 5k allowance."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "You be computer literate?"
"Yes, sir."
"BSc or HND?"
"HND."
"Good. There’s a spot open in my office, and I think you could fit in. Drop your Instagram handle; I’ll send you a message with my WhatsApp link. And, pick any five shirts you like. They’ll deliver them to your house tomorrow."
My eyes widened. Sharp guy that I am, I immediately opened Instagram and shared my handle. Seconds later, I saw his message. I checked his profile, and let’s just say, this man was not a small somebody. He had G-Wagon pictures, company events—you name it. Why was someone like this on a danfo?
As if reading my thoughts, he smiled.
"I know say you wan ask plenty questions. Just hold them. I have heard them before. I also sent my daughter’s contact too; she’s single, and well-behaved. By the way, what's your name?"
"My....my....my na...name is Akintomiwa Aromire, sir."
"I am Dr. Akeju. And I love to help young and vibrant youth like you."
"Are you single?"
There was no time to process my response.
"No sir, I am very single."
I was speechless. The driver couldn’t fix the bus, so I was standing there, just waiting, not even bothering to argue with the conductor. I saw the man talking on the phone. I decided to wait a little more.
"My driver is nearby. If you’re patient, he can give you a lift,"
he offered. I don’t know what came over me—I just went over and hugged him. Minutes later, his G-Wagon pulled up, and we cruised off.
Long story short, I now work as one of his assistants, 180k pay plus some unannounced training and transport allowance.
And just last night, I had dinner date with his daughter, Adesewa. Beautiful as the name sounds.
When your helper arrives, e go be like dream. Only you go just dey shout,
"Na wa o! My helper too do o!"
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