As a kid, my journeys were stories; the optical illusion of trees moving opposite direction pass our bus; cars and buses stopping over at road blocks for police security checks; the herbal medicine seller that barges into the bus to sell his “all-in-one” tablets, a drug that he says cures “all form” of illness; the preacher man with a long moment of prayer, covering every part of the bus with the precious blood, the spare tyres were not left out; the passengers reciting — Amen as he casts and binds every spirit of the road, he said they are constantly hungry for blood; the bread hawker shouting - “Mummy buy bread,” a common souvenir known to we Nigerians; then the snoring passenger snuggling over the seat; and the always vigilant passenger checking to see their luggage at each stop, this often is my mum.

Travelling by road was indeed something I loved. It was my hobby, each city I had visited had a unique story. I met new environment, the smell of new places; in the Northern part of Nigeria where the sun is always shining, one can actually smell the heat or perhaps it had no distinct odou, and the South with its “green” scent smells like a freshly mowed lawn.

I wasn’t just excited about the place I was going, the discoveries I made in the journey were the most fascinating.

I heard of stories, stories of passengers’ luggage being stolen. The luggage goes missing just immediately after a fellow passenger alight before the last stop.

This was mid-December, Nigerians who lived in the city were travelling to their home town. I was travelling with my mum to go see my grand mum. I sat by the window staring at monkeys jumping on the mountain far across the road as the driver dexterously dodges the potholes. A big lorry, what we call sometimes call "mammy wagon" in Nigeria, carrying herd of cattle from the north heading towards the south recklessly overtook our bus.

“I no blame you, man wey carry nama go think like nama,” our driver cursed out angrily the lorry driver.

The lorry driver pointed his five fingers at our driver's directions, giving the waka gesture as he sped away.

On the back of the lorry was beautifully painted - “No Padi 4 Jungle!”

I admire lorry drivers, they are like tiny Dany riding on her dragon. And can anyone ride a dragon? No, not at all!

The big lorries in Nigeria are not just a form of transport, they are havens of beautiful art, giving other watchful road-user a sight of ingeniously decorated art with inscription of famous lines, rich proverbs mostly from secular songs, holy books and maybe movies; the words are sometimes spelt incorrectly, but the meanings are beautiful.

Each driver brings to the road his own philosophy of life in brightly-painted capitals, mostly in English, Hausa, Yoruba, Ibo or in any other of Nigerian language.

Suddenly we all jerked forward screaming Jesus as the driver lost control of the bus. He manages to sway the bus into the bush nearby.

Everyone now horrified, the passengers sleeping were all called awake by the sudden inertia. Our bus managed to come to a halt with no scratch.

“Oh my sister prayer is good o!” the snoring woman said as we all came out of the bus unhurt. Everyone kept reminding themselves of the bus preacher's prayer.

From afar, I could see a bus sandwiched between a lorry. It was the lorry that sped past our bus, most of the cows were now lifeless in a pool of blood on the hot bitumen-tarred road; one could mistake it for a voodoo scene.

I saw a baby across the bush, it was the first time I saw a dead body. My mum tried to cover my face as she took me back to the bus from seeing what I already saw, I could recognize the lorry driver by his shirt, he was lying motionless in his own blood.

After this incident, travelling by road became something I detested, big lorry became my phobia!

But a kid has very little option to choose from, especially in an African home, I still had to travel with my mum to the village annually, my heart skipped each time a lorry came nearby, I still see the pool of blood in every art painting on a lorry. My heart would pound and I would start to sweat. The phobia took away my hobby.

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I have seen many lorries burnt to skeletons and cars alike
But that didn't create any sort of phobia in me, as an African Nigerian I saw things horrible things at a very young age but I learnt to cope with it regard it as one of those things that take place in my society.