Danfo Diaries – 08.04.2025

Today, my white was stained by a woman trying to get on the bus. The bus had stopped for her, and as she was moving to the back seat, she placed her dirty hands on my shoulder, weighing it down and soiling my top. I immediately yanked off her stubby hands as I glared at her. I was furious, but what could I do? Kick her out of the bus? Besides, I was on my way to work and preferred peace and quiet over exchanging words and giving myself a headache before getting to the office.

“Conductor, ₦200 change o. Next bus stop o wa o!”

“Madam, farabale nah.”

We got to the bus stop, and instead of giving the woman her change, the conductor began calling other passengers into the waiting bus. They eventually went at each other, curses were exchanged, ancestral lineages condemned, and mutters from the conductor about how the lady’s big bumbum was filled with rotten shit. The woman spread her five fingers at him, mouthing “waka” as if she heard him.

The bus trudged on. As we approached the express, a trailer heading towards Berger almost collided with our bus. Screams and prayers filled the air. The lady beside me bumped into me. Her weave ended up in my mouth, and I could taste the sweat, the dirt, and every other thing in between. My stomach turned.

The buildings turned to smudges of colour as we sped past them, I noticed the man wearing an ochre safari suit beside me kept scratching his armpits every minute. At some point, he seemed embarrassed and would furtively scratch as discreetly as he could. What could be wrong with him? Does he have a boil? I later got distracted by the driver, who was yelling at the conductor to shut the door firmly.

Some passengers shouted from the back, asking for their change. The driver yelled back, telling them to shut up and let the conductor do his job without distraction. Another passenger shouted back, telling him to focus on driving his jalopy.

“Does your mother have the money to buy this jalopy?” the driver yelled as he roughly manoeuvred the bus around a bend.

“God forbid. My mother drives a car that’s better than this,” the passenger retorted.

“Ehn ehn, and you are flying danfo? You can’t drive your stupid mother’s car? Useless girl.”

“Useless man! How can I be dragging my mother’s car with her? Yours died while you were young, and that’s why you can’t respect mine.”

I looked back at the girl in shock, wondering why she would say that, but before I could fully process it, the driver countered.

“I know your type nah witch you be. That’s why you’re behaving this way. You’ve been possessed!”

He steered the bus into a petrol station as he said this, and the conductor jumped down to get fuel in a jerrycan.

“Yes, and your head and eyes will be sweet to eat. See the way you’re sweating and your head has little flesh? It would be sweet to crunch.”

The man ignored her as he waited for the conductor to place the fuel in the boot before we set off again. The man beside me scratched his armpit once more.

We slowed to a stop as the bus waited to pick up passengers. Three lanky men in tops at different stages of decrepitude sauntered toward the vehicle.

“Owo da?” they said, holding out their hands at the conductor, who fumed and told them he only carried one passenger. The driver joined in the yelling, which ended with the passenger being dragged out of the bus by the agbero.

We set off again. I was already tired and just wanted to get to work already.

“E even hard you to pay agbero, see your life outside,” the lady trolled the driver again.

“If you want me to toast you, just say it. All this one is just woman wanting man because I don leave you alone.”

“God forbid!”

“If you want me to mount you, just follow me to the last bus stop. All this shakara.”

“Eyama, I don’t follow your types.”

“Na so woman dey talk until hand touch am!” the driver said as he leered.

The lady murmured something about the degeneration in the Nigerian economy that would make a hapless woman allow such a brutish looking man to touch her. She seemed disgusted, and the driver’s comment finally made her keep quiet.

There was peace and quiet on the bus, until someone suddenly hissed and began to talk about Nigeria. Like a choir following a lead vocalist, everyone joined in and began to lament the multilayers of shege they were experiencing under the present government. The musty air in the bus became damp with the spittle flying from various mouths as they complained about the state of the country.

The man beside me scratched his armpit again.

When we eventually got to my stop, I gently climbed down and heaved a sigh of relief, thankful for surviving the yellow bus yet another day.

We move again tomorrow.