The possibilities of getting tossed away from a crawling moving bus by some giant buttocks owned by a mean goddess of impatience in oshodi, Lagos state as a child is just crazy.
Yes, It was 1999, the good old days of serenity where the skies were still very much as blue as the morpho butterflies in rain forests, South America, the trends of big dark shades, boot-cut Jean trousers, oversized shirts with probably a Nike kiks and some “stronger-than-Thor’s-hammer Nokia phone” was in vogue. You had any of those shits back then, and you were a "big boy". I remember the girls dangling the "telephone wire" attachment from expression hairs. Styles like: doughnut hair with curled sleeping hair on the scalp of your head was the definition of “baby la hot, la fresh.”
Hit the streets with heels higher than kilimanjaro, "show me your back" tops and some shorts to show how endowed you were on your legs even if you were going to be trashed by our never disappointing well-cultured yoruba mothers on the road who literally could be louder than some concerts sound systems.
— The Yoruba people in Nigeria to me, are one of the modest-like looking set of people. They just appear to be one. Some are the chief rulers of quick-to-sight an error and quick-to-correct land. You wouldn’t know someone somewhere has been undergoing some forensic investigations on you and documenting them down until the day you commit an error. Your book of records would be opened that day. —
I was four year old and couldn’t remember much of this particular outing with mum. Just that I woke up feeling all excited when she announced we were both going to visit someone at the outskirts of oshodi.
I loved road journeys so much because I could see beyond my school, home and church, seat in a moving bus for long even if you had to be lapped by either your parent or some generous persons who didn’t mind helping a pregnant woman with kids. Although now I wished there were some uber or bolt ideas back then. The terror that filled my heart for some split seconds, the struggles I and mum went through that particular day could never be forgotten by me especially.
— 9:30pm and euphoria had gone on a fast vacation in me. Feeling drowsy and still being able to stand at this swamp of humans waiting for a ride to their ‘only-God-knows where’ destination. I had no fear though knowing I was held by the toughest super hero ever — my mum.
Ever beautiful fast thinking and precise decision making woman she is. Mum is from Ijebu, Ogun state in Nigeria; the stingy people as popularly known by other tribes. She is the first of her parent, only female child and from a typical Yoruba family at that. I could understand her sense of leadership knowing she had three men coming after her and how protective she had to be for the boys. A female child; usually looked upon as the weaker one, who came first. This poised alot of responsibility on her shoulder but my mum seemed to have been raised up like some martial art ninja turtle. She was silent but yet active in communication. She could communicate a thousand words by just a single expression on her face.
“Lekan!”, and then silence but with what I call “the looks”. If you were raised by my mum, you could be certified a bachelor degree holder in sign language & facial expressions even at age three. My elder sister who bagged a first class degree in this course of study that could take years (trust me, years!) to get in other homes already brought me through the basics and so I was a fast learner (thanks sis). We spoke less at home, but communicated more with the visuals. A word and a facial expression was almost the order of everyday.
I knew when mum or sis needed to make me stop what I was doing or adjust my current self with “the looks”. It was almost like our family invisible chain of communication.
Mum at the bus stop: “gives the looks”
Me: “nods head in affirmation of whatever she meant”. But in real sense; "Lekan! Stay awake and alert, we are getting a bus soon"
“This communication is best used especially when a non-family member is around”.
With high intents of getting home, mum couldn’t be intimidated by the crowd of muscular men or bigger looking women around her. I felt she has this 7th sense of detecting things ahead of time. So once a bus was approaching, she could calculate where the driver was finally going to step on those breaks bringing the vehicle to a stop.
"excuse me, excuse ooo, e sha je ka koja — let us through — ", mum reiterated to the people in her way as we squeezed through the crowd forcefully. "Madame ahn ahn take it easy na", the people replied.
*Poor people* I thought to myself. If only you knew that following her lead was the only solution you needed out of this place.
I could tell this time around that her 7th sense was activated and yes she goes wild when her chances appears to be threatened. You were ever in her way? and you gonna get tossed away.
In a moment, blood stopped flowing from my left elbow and down to my carpals. Mum had tightly shuffled her wide soft hand on them which translates to mean a bus was nearby (7th sense affirmation). I couldn’t move away or complain other than watch in pains the miracle of super mum. Like what other options did I have as at then except her. All I knew was “this too shall pass".
A dim beam of light shining from an old looking Lagos yellow danfo bus appeared from a distance.
“these yellow buses has saved and still saving lives since it was commissioned in Lagos. The new trends of classic taxi rides such as bolt, uber, Gokada, Opay and the likes are quite cool, but if you have got to get somewhere fast especially on the axis of mainland, ikorodu expressway, oshodi, mushin, agege, ijesha and places where the law enforcement agencies pay less attention to or just collects bribe, the yellow bus was your saving grace. The drivers I believe were remnant of asylums where driving was prolly the only thing they did while in chains. These men could manipulate traffic and get to their next stop while you as the big man in an expensive AC breezing car didn’t even shift gears to ‘D’.
To all those men who will be able to view this, I bid my respects to you all.”
Suddenly, glares of hope reflected on the faces of the crowd. I could tell everyone was on their top-game right now, feets splashing dirts of mud on my cute little shoes (rip to those sizes). With noise barking louder than a dog’s park, everyone became a conductor all of a sudden. Like the sprint tournament in the olympics, the crowd pulled up their track booths and ran towards the bus. If only the world knew that the fastest runner is not from Jamaica, Kenya or the USA but from Nigeria. With the sight of speed I saw that night, the comic character 'flash' would have been denied the world fastest man alive.
I was going to join the crowd in running towards the bus, but was pulled back by my mum’s firm grip on me who surprisingly has been silent while the crowd went bizarre on the arrival of the bus.
It was like she was communicating with the driver who we can’t see obviously as to where to stop.
*some psychic powers she had trust me*
As they all ran towards the bus, my mum stood still but prepared.
‘Na like joke o my people’, the bus passed them all and finally stopped in front of us.
*I feared mum after this day*
No chances was to be taken. Like superman pulled the safe with his right hand while using the other to break through the ground unto the surface, mum grabbed my hand and used the other to guard against the crowd who had speedily ran to where the bus stopped. The chaos was extreme. People falling and shouting as the driver lifted his foot off the breaks to accelerate slowly. I took in some punches to my poor skinny body but my bouncer wasn’t there for jokes as well. Some WWE extreme stunts was practically happening live in front of me.
“Were ni e ni? (are you a mad person)”
“Oga you no see me ni”
“Driver wait o”
“Slow down abeg I go pay double”
“e duro o dirifa” (driver wait)
The chaos and the noise wasn’t even my bother. Mum had secured a seat finally. Only for her to pull me up to her laps.
Then Suddenly! it happened...
“At this stage, I have to let out my honest grudge out on behalf of all the skinny being in existence. Big people should have their separate bus in our society. They literally occupy conveniently and comfortably a one and half sitting space of an average person and pay for only one seat. While the fortunate fellow who would seat beside them would have to squeeze up until the end of the trip and pay equal amount for less convenience (why should I even pay at all? Not like I sat down?), the unfortunate fellows are those who would seat inbetween two big persons. By experience, most people in this scenario just sink in the air they need for the journey and retain that amount of oxygen in their lungs till they drop from the bus and continue the cycle of “in and out” breathing method, else, their end was decided the moment they agreed sitting in between them”.
… mum was about using her other hand to pull me up to her laps when one big buttocks lady jumped on the edge of the bus all in the struggle to also get a seat. As she hanged upon the entrance of the bus, for that brief moment, this mean goddess of buttocks just tossed me off with her massive behind like some home lizard off the wall.
By now the bus man was on a 20km/h speed. Startled and appalled by this madness in time I went from “yes we got the bus” to “what the fuck just happened”.
The brief moment it took the driver to notice a wild screaming mother along with good wishing fellow citizens raising alarm of a child dropping from the bus to the muddy soil and the moment I stood from the ground with fears and almost tears (though I didn’t cry as a tough man that I am and the big boy then, you know na *winks*) in my eyes.
The moment of thinking “how I will spend the night walking home alone without mum”.
The moment of thinking “I have been left behind in this world of mad people all alone".
The moment of “how will I survive without family”.
The moment of “is this what it means to be a child in Nigeria”
That brief moment was a crazy one that got all of me trembling.
I couldn’t do anything other than stand and watch the bus move slowly till it stopped and I rushed to mama’s hand. No injuries, but still the pain I felt that night shouldn’t be felt as a child either by me or any other person.
By now the crazy big buttocks lady has been terribly scolded, insulted and pushed down the bus by angered passengers.
I didn’t even look at her twice.
I just mind my business and enjoyed the warmth of mothers love with all the attention from the passengers.
“Sorry ehn”, “don’t mind that lady" they said to me. Too much attention was making me tear down more. Like someone was grinding a truck of onions in the bus. Tough hard guy was the role I played at first but finally I succumbed to attention, and oh my, did they not hear my voice that night. I just gave them top notch crying stage drama that would last them for the rest of their lives.
This story may not have any moral lesson to be learnt but to those wonderful passengers who ended up not paying the transport fair of I and mum.
Thank you all, you are the real MVP’s
I thereby dedicate this story to my beautiful mum. The love that fixes every piece in me to the man that I am now.
Mrs. Solanke. I love you now and always.
This story has been inspired by a prolific writer whose works I admire Mrs. Eketi Ette. Please follow her funny and well constructed stories (@eketiette): https://twitter.com/eketiette?s=09
Till I find the strength to write again, I remain yours always.
Solanke Olamilekan.
