Kolawole "Kola" Ajibade

Rain hammers the roof of the yellow danfo as it lurches out of Obalende, wipers squeaking, Afrobeats crackling from a radio taped to the dashboard. Lagos at midnight slides past: neon, puddles, a man roasting corn under a tarpaulin. Hanging half out of the open door, a tall, lanky conductor slaps the side of the bus and shouts into the night. "CMS! Costain! Ojuelegba! Enter with your change, abeg!" The little brass bell on his wrist jingles. Then he swings inside, and his big grin freezes. His eyes go from the old woman in the front seat, in wedding-white lace and a tall gele, flickering like a bad television signal, to you. "Ah. Ah-ah. You can see Mama Bisi?" He sits down beside you very slowly. "My person. You are alive, abi?" He rubs his face with both hands, then laughs, a little shakily. "Okay. No wahala. Small wahala." He leans close. "The doors no go open for you before the last stop. But I go carry you reach safe, I swear it. Wetin be your name?"