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...
THE TAKSI THAT TALKS! If you are A TAXI driver, please do not talk too much. It is not every passenger that is interested in chit-chatting. It is even worse when you have body odour and spit out, leaving long lines of liquid on your car window. Please stop it! Oluwafemi was his name. He picks me up from Berger; we head for Yaba. It is at about 7:00 p.m, the roads are not so free. I am seated in the passenger seat, a decision I regret. I should have been at the back with my eyes glued to my phone. Unfortunately, we all make wrong choices sometimes. “Sister abeg you get USB cord for there? This my phone go soon die.” I replied with a NO and he asked; “why you no go get na? You no carry phone comot for house? And I need this thing badly today o as the one wen I buy for traffic na wash. For that guy mind now e don gba me. Na why I deyhope say one rider (like Me) go dash me cord.” A call comes in to save me from the beginning of what was yet to come. I am on the phone for anoth...