Ojueleba!, Ojuelegba!!, Ojuelegba!!! the bus conductor screamed. We stood there under the bridge at Ikeja and watched him wail feverishly, with spittle and foam flying from his mouth to all directions within a 120° range. At first he was sitting at the edge of the middle seat of the bus, with his knees extending outside of the open doors of the Bus. When he saw that the prospective passengers were all standing, unimpressed by his shouting skills, he notched it up a bit, this time, he was standing on the edge of the bus, with one hand holding on to the upper frame and the other waving frantically and beckoning on the by-standers to come into his bus. This time around, some of them began to contemplate boarding the bus to the detriment of the other conductors who were also trying to woo them into their own buses in very rather coarse voices.
In Lagos, people do not just board buses. Firstly, they want to see the street skills of the conductor and the ability of the driver to maneuver through the permanent traffic gridlocks and get them to their destinations quicker than other drivers could. In Lagos, everything was a competition, a constant dog-eat-dog scenario. Even little things like purchasing food on the street corner, required a high level of manoeuvres, a very loud voice and even some pushing and shoving. Once in a while, if one was unlucky and contended with one of the more crazy Agberos, you may end up with a fist forgotten in your face. Other times, you may be the one shouting down the face of an innocent looking street boy, whichever way, it was all a constant battle to survive.
Consequently, no one ever made spontaneous decisions, a single mistake like entering into the bus of the wrong driver could leave you stranded for hours in Lagos traffic, a daring driver on the other hand would leave your heart in your mouth, but with some luck take you to your destination safely and in record time.
Once the conductor noticed an improvement in the body language of those who were meant to be his passengers, he suddenly jumped down from the static bus and began screaming at the top of his voice. I watched him intently and with every shout, his eyes bulged and even seemed as if they were going to pop out of their sockets. The Driver joined in on the impolite appeal for passengers to come into the bus, experience and impatience mixed to lend his voice a sort of street appeal. Yes! This was the Man we had all been waiting for. Suddenly as if on cue, we all ran to secure a seat in the bus. I was lucky to get a seat by the window, this was the spot were most people wished they could sit, considering that the ventilation and comfort was better there. At this point, the conductor began shouting their normal slogan 'hold your change o'. Anyways, for anyone who had lived in Lagos for three months or more, this slogan meant nothing to us, it was just an empty threat that we were all used to.
Once all the seats in the bus were fully packed, then the Agberos would step in.
One of them had been sipping a bottle of local gin at a corner all this while, however his timing was perfect as the last drop of gin disappeared immediately the last person shoved his way through others into the bus.
'Owo mi da?' (where is my money?) the Agbero demanded in a rather low but sinister tone, our bus conductor screamed 'O'rie o'pe' (you are mad) in reply, he seemed outraged by his predator's unexpected politeness, they were all used to loud bickers and cursing that any form of politeness or courtesy was interpreted as weakness and therefore greeted with harshness and rudeness.
Unknowingly to us, the Agbero who had just emerged from a baptism of gin, was actually under a false pretext of mildness. The Alcohol was gradually taking it's toll, it calmed his nerve, but increased his tendency for physical aggression. It was like the concept of opportunity cost which we were taught in secondary school economics class. To the Agbero, Violence was the preferred choice and lousiness the alternative forgone.
Swiftly he dived for the collar of the conductor's shirt and dragged him off the slowly moving bus, impulsively, the conductor returned the favour with a heavy punch to the left eye of the Agbero who screamed out in pain and started cursing in rapid Yoruba, as if he had rehearsed the rhetoric for such a day as this.
Slowly, everyone alighted from the bus and formed a semi-circle around the combatants.
It was almost an unwritten law in the streets of Lagos that anyone caught fighting should not be separated, to even make it worse, we all seemed to have had a boring day and unanimously agreed in our minds that we could use a little cheering up.
The Agbero threw a rather weak jab at the conductor who jerked his his backwards as the fist stopped inches away from his face, then he began bouncing first on his right foot and then on his left like one who was engrossed in a ritual dance and suddenly like a flash of lightning, he produced a quick blow to the bridge of the nose of the Agbero, who was shamelessly flaunting his black eye. The latest attempt by our conductor hero drew some blood and a section of the already polarised audience cheered him on.
Suddenly, an evil smile flashed across the black lips of the Agbero. The punches from the opposition seemed to have suddenly triggered the recall of a very important information from the depths of his brain.
Everyone watched on as he ceremoniously dipped his hands in his pockets and brandished a strange looking round object comprising of leaves, feathers and other unknown items, all bound together with a red strip of cloth. At this point, the Agbero grimaced at the conductor who stood and watched him in confusion. He brought the strange looking object to his mouth and started chanting incantations, at this point,all eyes were on him as we watched to see what new twist this story would take. After about 30 seconds of ranting into his charm, by the time he stopped, we all looked the other way just to find our hero conductor, outstretched on the floor, his hands flailing helplessly and unable to move both lower limbs.
A siren wailed nearby and the crowd quickly disappeared into no where. They were all street boys, i muttered to myself, they should know how to sort themselves out.
The Siren wailed past our bus stop and we all returned to wait for another bus, one whose conductor willingly handed over the N50 note demanded by the Agbero.
Written by Onyeoziri Favour
Email: favouronyeoziri@gmail.com
