Some things happen that just make you think about your life. Like why? When? How did I get here? It’s not the small thinking oh, like maybe if you fail an exam or you lose hundred naira. No oh. I am talking deep thinking, such that if you move your head too much, you will rethink the existence of God. So here I am staring down this very large double mouthed peep-hole into the Kingdom of Heaven and it’s like I can see the angels.

Baba Tobore, how? How you for take reach for here?

I think my trouble must have started when I had missed the last BRT bus leaving Ajah. I hate it when I have to close from work late. And it’s not because I am lazy or that I hate to do my work. I just hate the hassle that comes with having to make my way home after such a long day. I don’t think it is the safest thing in the world to do, to head home towards Ketu from Ajah at 10.30pm. It is even worse because I hold in my pocket something important enough to look at every passerby twice. This is all Madam’s fault. Let’s not talk about how my official closing time is actually 5pm. We can also forget how, madam can really drive but because Oga is a bigshot, she feels her blood red nails will suddenly break if she lays her hands on the steering wheel of the Benz.

I leave work late o, but it’s worse on Thursdays. Like clockwork, I must go to Spar and pick up new bottles for the dispenser, bla bla, drop Madam off at the Spa and then pick up the dry cleaning at Garment Care. With that in the car, by this time it’s Noon I go and pick up Semilore from St. Savior’s and drop him with the Nanny at home. After that I pick Madam up from the Spa and drop her 1004. That’s where she is oh, till I have to go and pick Tomiwa at BIS and drop her at home as well. Then I’ll go back to 1004 and wait for madam.

Sometimes, she takes long than usual, other times, she’s waiting for me in the parking lot. But there is never a time she doesn’t look a little bit flustered. One would think that she comes here to pound yam. I can think of ten things that can cause that, but it’s not my business.

Anyway, through the traffic, and everything. I got madam home, of course without any thanks from her. Shebi, I am only just doing my job. Let me go, abi? No oh. Madam made sure I washed the car as usual. And she supervised it. She feels that by so doing, some minutes would be saved in the morning when we have to head out. Yes, I have to be back here by 6.30am. I want to quit but where do I get something better or that even measures up. Let me not even shout. Shebi Tamuno, where he works he be like all rounder. If he’s not changing the bulb, he’s washing the toilet or carrying bags of rice. Let’s just be thanking God.

That’s how I got to Ajah. No BRT again. Even the normal commercial bus, na two remain. Both of them weren’t going to Ketu straight. The first one was Yaba, and the second, Oshodi. I entered the Oshodi one in the hopes that I’d find another bus going to Ketu at end of the Third Mainland bridge. There were four of us in the bus when we set off – one old woman on the first row with the conductor, a young lady on the second row and then a young man; probably a driver like myself and then me on the last row.

It was unspoken but we were all glad that he didn’t wait to full his bus up. Maybe it was the breeze of a ride so free, or the exhaustion from driving all day, I slept off. It was a dreamless sleep until I was woken up by a nightmare. I was about to give a piece of my mind to whoever it was that was poking me with a hard stick when I opened my eyes.

The hard stick was the barrel of a shotgun. I looked beyond the barrel to the hand that held it. It was the conductor. The guy I thought was a driver, had a knife pointing at the back of the young lady on the middle row. The old woman just kept murmuring something in Yoruba I could not understand.

Surrender all you have, and we will not harm you, the conductor said to me. His eyes didn’t seem hard at all. He reminded me of Kamilu in our yard in Ketu. We could have had beer together. I looked out of the window, we were still far from the Airtel billboard. I didn’t stand a chance. He smiled at me, his face creasing like crumpled paper. I brought out my Nokia torchlight first, and then my wallet in my back pocket. I handed both to him.

He tilted his head to the side. I looked at the bulge in my pocket that was my salary. I stared down the barrel.

Baba Tobore, how? How you for take reach for here?

I sighed, fighting back the tears as I handed him the white envelope. Every nerve and cell in my body screamed. He took the bounty from me and returned my wallet, untouched. You will need it to go home, he said. The tears didn’t come till they dropped me off at the end of the bridge – Iyana-Oworo.

The bus I enter na one shans. This Lagos life just be like pot of burnt beans.

Nice one