Do we know when the last time we would ever do something is? Do you know the last time you crawled before you started walking? Does anybody know the last time they experienced someone without realizing that would be the last time they ever would?

If I were asked whether I knew the last time I would be in the midst of a shouting match between a conductor and a passenger on my way to work, I would say no.

Because two Tuesdays ago, as I struggled to board the bus while my temple pounded like they would soon implode, I wished Bolt drivers weren’t refusing my request. I wished I had a car of my own and could just ride straight to work vroooooooooooom!

And as I sat in the yellow bus, thankful for the driver for not jerking the bus, thankful he did not start moving as I was trying to settle down and I did not bash my head, because if any of that had happened I would have seen chaotic fiery shades of red and would only grit my teeth in pain as I willed the tears to stay. I sat and watched as the bus trudged through the express and the conductor and passenger exchanged hot tirades, because nothing beats conductor VS passenger tiffs.

Passenger: Kinikan bus stop o wa!

Conductor: (Hits roof of bus to signal to the driver) O n bole

Passenger: My 100 naira change o!

Conductor: 500 nah your money you no get change.

Passenger: You say wetin? Give me my change! You tell me price before I enter?

Conductor: Ehn ehn, you for trek go the place nah

Passenger: God punish you.

Conductor: Your moda.

Passenger: Useless man

Conductor: Oloshi.

If I had known that the Friday after would be the last day, I would board a Danfo, maybe I would have been less hasty. Maybe I would have waited for another bus instead of the cramped bus with the conductor’s pelvis that was almost pressing into the hand with which I held the basket I carried. I had to contort my arms to uncomfortable forms to prevent any form of encounter with a random man’s genitalia. There is absolutely no pleasure in unintentionally massaging an unfamiliar penis.

I stopped inhaling till I got to my bus stop because I cannot the smell of a stranger’s sweaty ball sack to my olfactory memory. I pressed instead against the lady beside me, who thankfully was not as irritable as I was, because if I were her I would have nudged whoever was pressing into me sideways, and if the lady beside me were me, she would have nudged me fully into the conductor’s musty balls.

I cannot remember the exact day I boarded a Danfo in my life, but I know the story is not disconnected from one of my close friends, who was my guide during my first time in Lagos. I believe we boarded a bus from Obalende so I could navigate my way to UNILAG, but only splatters of that memory are stuck with me, though the urine drenched smell of Obalende under bridge is still vivid.

Writing this reminds me of the series of vivid characters I encountered in moving Danfos: the naked man who bathed on the express and tormented me every morning with the sight of his hard brown backside on my way to work; the Lord’s Chosen members who lined the roadside in bright green vests, clutching megaphones and shaking dramatically as they preached about hell; and the stout man who collected loading money from the buses.

I also remember the funny bleached man with relaxed hair whose jittery movements in the bus perfectly captured the restlessness of someone desperate to be white adjacent while still unmistakably Black. And I remember the woman who zipped up my gown in the bus, to whom I offered a heartfelt thank you because I had covered the dress with a scarf and had been hoping someone at work would help me with it.

I digress I know, but all of these experiences during my sojourn via Lagos yellow buses came rushing back this morning as I drove myself to work. As I refused to move from my junction until all traffic was fully cleared, I reflected on why Mark Manson groups problems into good and bad. Good problems eventually improve you and aid the quality of your life, for example having to read far into the night to understand a course you enrolled yourself in. That is suffering with a purpose, you gain more knowledge and a degree.

Bad problems, however, take hold of your life and time and bring you nothing but misery and stress, like a beer parlour next to your house that plays music from 12am to 5am, leaving you with headaches and a fitful night’s sleep. We cannot always avoid a life of problems, but we can consciously create good problems for ourselves, gym, reading, dedication to a course, buying a car.

In this case, I would have to deal with the good problem of buying fuel, routine servicing, and ensuring the car is well maintained. This is a great problem that I welcome wholly. That was what I told the person who thought they could scare me by saying fuel is expensive.

Abundance is of God. And of ME.

So, dear readers, I am afraid this is the last Danfo diaries to ever grace my blog. Any reference to yellow buses going forward would be me talking about how they can be total nonces on the road, but until then… I believe.

When I imagined a day like this coming to fruition, I thought I would be overwhelmed by a rush of emotions, but I am calm.

THE END.