“Ekate! Ekate roundabout! Oya o, money for back.”

When the wind moves through the vehicle and my hair whips out of place, I want the ride to last forever, as the rowdy box barrels down the expressway off the island and onto the Third mainland bridge where the setting sun hovers over the University of Lagos and shimmers in the water as we pass. Suddenly, the vehicle chokes, the driver slows to the edge, passengers barrel out vexed as their feet scrape the bridge in annoyance.

“Oga gimme me change, jare!”

It’s scary, it’s exhilarating, I pause and stare at the barrier hoping it won’t suddenly give way and blow us into the shimmering water. A bandit could appear out of nowhere – I clutch my bag, my sides, my body hoping the faint internal shuddering is not noticeable.

Oga busies himself moving hurriedly, standing directly in the middle of the bridge to beat down another bus.

It’s as though there’s this unseen chain, a grand linkage of all danfos to each other, as he pats the vehicle down and a familiar face emerges from the driver’s side. Like a trail of ants on the move that rush to a wounded brother, the driver willfully stops and jumps out, the passengers amble about until shepherded into the new bus equally as tore up as the former. The vehicle blasts off as I peer through the back shield at the fading image of the broken down bus and its owner still ambling around trying to come up with solutions.

“Money for back!” This is not directed at those of us from broken down bus but the few that must have climbed on before we did. Crumpled bent notes are handed over while conductor squeezes the notes into his satchel, spits in the air, belt buckle flapping while revealing part of his underwear, and ignores the insistences for change.

“Oga my change, jor, wetin do you?”

“Oga slow down jor, abi you won kee person?”

The bus quickly abandons the third mainland bridge as it approaches Iyana Oworo.

“Owa o, owa o,” an elderly woman bends her head and carefully steps out, adjusting her wrappa and motioning to the conductor to help her with her things at the back. It’s incredible the weight that many market women, young or old, can carry or mount on their heads without the slightest wince or show of pain or annoyance. As some dip their heads and disembark, others rush and squeeze themselves into the back seats, squeeze their threadbare notes into the conductor’s hand as he yells again and again. As it’s late, the sound of slippers slapping the ground accompany tired worn individuals shoving to enter with buses taking their sweet time to appear. The throng beat the vehicle and it starts back up while the conductor appears, disappears and reappears, latching on to the side of the bus to hail at the next stop and search for non-existent change and then beg passengers to wait. This time a baby is strapped to its mother’s back and every time the bus shudders and we feel the impact from the absence of a shock absorber, the baby squirms and squeals; the mother says nothing. Every conversation a passenger has with an annoyed client or a demanding boss must be heard, must be shared at the top of their lungs as if to compete with the blaring sounds from the radio. We pass fuel stations, eateries and estates, the driver showing little care when driving into occasional portholes. When we finally come close to my stop right underneath an overhead bridge I have to hit the side of the bus and yell so the driver won’t careen past the stop and dump me somewhere I can’t identify, an easy target for muggers. The bus finally slows down, and as I step out a few white-garment church passengers push forward clutching their bibes saddled with tambourines and possibly in mid prayer as the bus blasts off with song emanating from it, my eyes watching it fade down the road.