A ride in a typical Lagos city “danfo”

By Abimbola Ola

The sun was blazing that afternoon when I set out with my best friend, Sekinat. Lagos was already in its usual state of restless movement—horns blaring, hawkers chanting, and the constant smell of exhaust fumes mixing with roasted corn from the roadside.
We made our way to the Gbagada bus stop, where the air was thick with noise. Conductors hung halfway out of their buses, shouting destinations with cracked voices.
“Oshodi! Oshodi straight! Enter with your ₦300 change! Charlie Boy, ₦200! Oshodi last card, ₦300!”
The voice came from a young conductor whose face was lined with sweat and impatience. Without wasting time, we climbed into a small korope, the kind of mini-bus that always looked like it had survived ten accidents but somehow still carried people every day.
Sekinat and I squeezed into a seat at the back, relieved that we had found a “nice space.” The seats were torn at the edges, yellow foam peeking out, but in Lagos, that was luxury enough.
The bus filled quickly, with passengers pressing against one another like books packed too tightly on a shelf. Despite the crowd, the ride began smoothly. The radio crackled faintly in the front, playing Fuji music, while the city sped past in flashes—billboards, okadas weaving dangerously, and hawkers balancing trays of Gala and La Casera.
Then came Charlie Boy bus stop.
A lanky man in the front seat, with a face that looked permanently angry, cleared his throat and spoke.
“I can’t pay ₦300,” he said firmly. “I dey drop for Anthony Oke. I go pay ₦200.”
The driver, a stocky man with rough palms and a short temper, turned his head slightly, still keeping one hand on the wheel.
“Oga, I no fit collect ₦200. Fuel don cost. Tinubu don make everything expensive. Even pure water sef dey follow increase.”
The lanky man scoffed. “From here to Anthony Oke, ₦200 don do. You no go cheat me. I no go pay ₦300.”
And just like that, a small disagreement became a full-blown war.
“Ori e ko pe!” the driver shouted, his voice rising above the rattle of the bus. “Na you buy motor for me ni?”
The passenger leaned forward. “You dey mad? You wan use your own wahala chop my money?”
The argument went on and on, words flying like bullets. The rest of us sat in silence, watching the tension build like a storm cloud. The conductor tried to calm things down, but the two men were lost in their anger.
Then, the unimaginable happened.
The passenger, in a fit of rage, grabbed the steering wheel.
What followed was chaos. The bus swerved violently. My head knocked against the side window as people screamed.
“Blood of Jesus!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
“Jesus save us!” another woman cried.
“Ah! You want to kill us!” voices rang from every corner.
“Gbaaa!” The sound of metal smashing against concrete filled the air as the korope collided with a culvert. Dust and smoke rose as passengers tumbled over one another. Bags flew, slippers scattered, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Before I could gather myself, the driver leapt out of the bus. His shirt was half-torn, sweat dripping from his forehead, and then—he pulled out an axe from underneath his clothes.
Gasps filled the air. My blood ran cold.
“You dey craze ni? You wan kill all my passengers?” he screamed, advancing towards the passenger with the kind of rage that made everyone freeze.
“Driver, no o!” someone cried.
“Abeg, drop the axe!” another begged.
“Ola, calm down! Life no get duplicate!”
But he didn’t listen. The axe glinted in the harsh sun as he inched closer. The lanky man cowered, but his pride kept him standing. Sekinat clutched my arm, whispering, “We have to leave, we have to leave now.”
As soon as I saw a small gap near the door, I bolted. My legs shook, but fear gave me speed. I called out for Sekinat, my voice breaking with panic. Behind me, the cries of other passengers filled the air.
“Help us!”
“Don’t kill him!”
“Somebody hold the driver!”
By the time I reached the roadside, my chest was heaving. People from nearby stalls and passersby had gathered, forming a protective circle. They pleaded with the driver, trying to wrestle sense back into him.
Finally, an elderly man stepped forward and said, “Driver, abeg, leave this matter. I go pay the ₦100 difference.”
The driver stopped, panting, his grip on the axe loosening. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the weapon. A tense silence spread, broken only by the nervous chatter of those who had witnessed the madness.
He turned back to us. “Everybody enter bus. Make we continue journey.”
But I shook my head. My voice was firm though my knees trembled. “I’m not going again. I’ll take another bus.”
To me, Oshodi had never felt so far away.
As I stood there, watching the korope roll back onto the road with its rattling engine, a strange calm washed over me. I was grateful—not just for surviving, but for the reminder that Lagos life is fragile. A quarrel over ₦100 had nearly cost us all our lives.
I whispered a prayer: “Thank You, Lord, for another chance to live.”
In Lagos, they say no party beats a Lagos party. But on the roads? No danger beats a Lagos bus ride. And that day, I learned—sometimes, survival itself is the greatest miracle.