It is another Thursday, and Thursday Chronicles is here again, your weekly reminder that life in Nigeria is not for the faint-hearted. If you’ve survived danfo drivers, keke riders, and okada men, you deserve a medal, a handshake, and maybe free Wi-Fi for life.
If you’ve ever entered public transport in Nigeria, then you know, it is not just movement from point A to B, it is theatre. Forget Nollywood, the real drama is happening inside danfo, keke, and okada.
Let’s start with danfo buses. Lagos danfo drivers have only two moods: Formula 1 driver or suicidal stuntman. The way they squeeze that bus through tiny spaces, you’ll hold your bag, your phone, and your life all at once. Meanwhile, the conductor is hanging halfway outside, shouting destinations as if he’s announcing a WWE fight: “Oshodi! Oshodi! Enter with your change o!”
And ah, the matter of change. Nigerian conductors never have change. Never. Even if you hand them ₦200 for a ₦150 ride, that missing ₦50 can lead to a national argument. You’ll hear:
“Conductor, my change!”
“Madam, no disturb me. I go give you.”
Two hours later: nothing. And if you vex too much, they’ll stylishly insult you with the classic line: “Shey you no dey see say I dey drive?” (Meanwhile, he’s not the one driving).
Now let’s talk about keke (tricycles). Keke drivers believe they are small cars, small bikes, and small airplanes at the same time. The way they swerve in and out of traffic, you’ll start calculating your life choices. Sometimes, three grown adults will be squeezed at the back seat like sardines, and one person will still insist on carrying two bags of onions.
As for okadas, they are not bikes. They are fear distributors. If you’ve ever been on an okada, you’ve already faced death and come back. The way they overtake trailers, you’ll be whispering, “Father Lord, if I survive this, I promise to give testimony on Sunday.” And let’s not forget how they love shortcuts. Before you know it, you’re on a narrow bush path, wondering if the man is taking you to your destination or another realm.
Of course, the best part of public transport is the characters inside. There’s always that one passenger who acts like a co-driver, shouting “Driver, slow down!” Or the motivational speaker who suddenly decides to preach: “Repent now, the kingdom of God is at hand.” Sometimes, you even meet the hustlers who turn the bus into Shoprite, selling handkerchiefs, herbal bitters, and miracle pens that can supposedly make your child pass WAEC.
But let’s be honest: for all the chaos, there’s a strange sense of community in Nigerian transport. You can enter as strangers and come down as temporary friends, united by the shared suffering of traffic, heat, and one conductor who swallowed your change.
And that’s this week’s Thursday Chronicles. Nigerian transport may test our patience, bones, and faith, but it also gives us daily stories we can laugh about forever. Until next Thursday, may your bus be quick, your conductor remember your change, and your okada never enter “one chance.”
