It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
Her voice jarred in my ears like an un-snooze-able alarm as she narrated to her colleagues how her sex partner could not satisfy her the previous night. I stood at the bus stop that day for over an hour waiting to get a bus. It had not been easy for car-less residents of Lagos since the Okada and Keke ban. You either struggled or wobbled to get yourself home. I was usually part of the wobblers . That day had a vibe on its own that could send the devil himself to hell unwillingly. The sun refused to set way after past 6, the air was at attention, and car owners were very unfriendly... would you blame them? When this bus rolled up in front of me, I felt like Angelina Jolie in the Tourist, all I did was stroll in effortlessly. Yes, there are still some of us who think life is that easy. A group of 3 ladies and 3 men followed suit and we all started with this journey that would lead to another, in that Korope (mini bus). There would be wild thoughts and great rea...