Bus Tales 16 – @Niyi__

Happy birth date to Taiwo Marayesa the writer of “Wealth series” on this blog, many happy returns and special thanks to @Oge_writes for her contributions.
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Episode 15 here
http://t.co/vxHjvj8seD

I have always opined that there are two types of people in the world; bad people, like Clifford Orji and Idi Amin, then good people, like Jesus and me. I am a good person, but I do not understand why such a bad thing had to happen to me.
I have always hated Public Transportation, and I have always hated Lagos. I remember when I had 3 months of Internship, and I had to wake up every morning at 5:00am, to get to Ikeja from Alagbado. For a student who always skips 7am classes, that was a major chore for me. This was the major reason I vowed not to spend my 6 months Internship in Lagos, but alas, as they say “the love of money is the root of all evil”.
I work at Anthony Village and I “travel” from Alagbado to Anthony Village and back every day. It is hell. Kind of. On this particular day, I had taken my usual bike from the office to Anthony, and I had to wait for a bus to Oshodi Isale for over 15 minutes. I did not mind, I was used to it. A bus to Oshodi Isale finally came, and as a boy who has stayed in Lagos for over 20 years, I hustled for it and got in. Badoo.
I do not have to describe how rickety the bus was. It was a typical Lagos bus, probably something out the junk yards of America. Anyway, once in, I yanked my earplugs out of my ears, as the track playing was a track my “upcoming musician” friend made me download, and I hated the crap. The pockets of my pants were too tight (as a happening guy) to be relieved of my phone so I simply removed the earpiece from my ears and resumed pinging on my BlackBerry The conductor stood right beside me; I was sitting right by the door. I did not mind that his shirt had the stench of a 5 day old dead body (I may be exaggerating a little bit). I did not mind that his mouth was swollen by the left, the swelling was as big as my fist (something I had noticed before I hustled in). I did not even mind that he decided to put his crotch, covered by his dirty jean, right beside my face (he would sit soon anyway).
Luckily (or rather, unluckily as it would turn out) for me, a passenger right beside me alighted at Town Planning, and the conductor decided to sit. He would finally get his crotch out of my face. I was happy. Little did I know the face-crotch was heaven sef.
The conductor sat, I shifted to avoid the stench of his shirt. As I shifted, I was confronted by the stench of the woman beside me, it smelt like a milder version of those big iron waste-bins located around female hotels in OAU. Best believe, milder here in no way refers to mild. It was terrible. I assume she was on her period, N500 Sure was expensive after all. I still did not mind (okay, maybe I did, a bit). Then the Conductor spoke. He spoke.
Before I proceed, I must first state that I have a big nose. It is a distinguishing feature on my face. I can smell whoever or whatever from 100 meters away, it is a talent I am most proud of.
You see, when this conductor spoke, oh my God. I am sure I prayed for death unconsciously. If you know Lagos, you probably know Anthony Village to Oshodi is less than 10 minutes. Easily the worst 10 minutes of my life. The smell of his unbrushed mouth, plus the smell of the swollen gum, plus the smell of his shirt, plus the smell of the bleeding woman, it would have been better if I had been hit in the head with cast iron, Olorun! I cried, I cannot even lie and form hard, I cried! I could not control it, the tears just fell. The worst part was that he was talking to me, asking for his N30. I squeezed my face and handed him N100, that was when the real trouble started. He began to shout about how he had said we should enter with our change, that because I’m one spoilt brat with a “BB”, I thought I could have my way abi? I was supposed to be embarrassed, but, the smell from his mouth made me continue to cry. A thick Yoruba voice from the back told him to take it easy, as the “small boy” had started to cry already, they did not know the true reason I was crying. He laughed, my tears intensified. We were already by the Samsung digital billboard now and the tears had not ceased . He sneezed facing the ground and the smell rose from the bottom up. Tears continued to flow. By the time we got to Junction, I alighted and he laughed some more and handed me my change. I collected it amidst sorries and peles. I nodded a few times and walked away in deep embarrassment. I will forever hate Public Transport. I will forever hate Lagos.

The writer is @Niyi__ on twitter and his personal blog is http://www.niyiademoroti.wordpress.com.

I’m @newnaija