One Mad Molue Morning

Every molue passenger is a potential mad or woman!

If I had had the premonition of what I was to go through on the morning of a particular Tuesday in 2014, I would have stayed or slept at home all day. But then, how was I supposed to know that I was just another mad Nigerian waiting to be unveiled.



I must have been at Pleasure bus stop for over an hour. The Sun was hot on my back. I was heading to school for the week, having spent the weekend (Monday, inclusive) at home. 

There was a large number of people at the bus stop, most of them met me there. The conductors of all the yellow ‘Danfo’ buses that stopped by were screaming, “Oshodi 200! Oshod!” To which those at the bus stop would hiss in reply. And like everybody else at the bus stop, I thought – surely a bus of N150 would come along. And so we all waited.

You must imagine my amazement and relief when a molue of appeared and its conductors were shouting, “N50 Oshod! Standing Oshod!” But the catch was – the molue didn’t stop, it was cruising by at a steady speed, hence one had to run along to get in.

Well apparently, I wasn’t the only one at the bus stop who came up with that logic. I clutched my backpack and found myself sprinting alongside over a dozen other people. We chased the bus. I’ll say that again; we chased a molue not an ice cream truck.

By the time I ran up near the bus about four guys had already jumped and were standing at the rear entrance. I jumped and grabbed the iron bar near the rear entrance. The molue picked up speed. And I was , for what seemed like 5 seconds, swinging at the entrance of a moving molue. [Try to picture Saka playing James Bond].

Those at the entrance way moved further into the bus. I gained a foothold and also moved into the bus. I shuffled my way through and stood behind the last two-seater chair. I had one hand on the chair for balance, the other held down my phone and money (I once had an ugly experience with pickpockets).

Behind me was the entranceway and a long 5 or 6 seater chair. About 50-something people of various tribe, size and creed sat on the 3 and 2 seaters on either side of the aisle – first class passengers who had paid N100. The aisle was filled with economy class passengers like me. 

In no time we were at Iyana Ipaja and the two conductors were again chanting “N50 Oshod! Standing Oshod!” The bus was filled yet for every one passenger that alighted, three or more were taken aboard as replacement.

The rear entrance way was now blocked. One of the conductors squeezed his way through the aisle, haranguing for the fare. He looked tired and shabby. One of his tooth was missing and the rest; yellowish-brown like withering banana tree leaves. 

Somewhere ahead, behind the driver’s enclosure, a man was preaching. I couldn’t see him clearly. But his voice could be heard above the din. Every now and then, people paused to answer a resounding “Amin!” I said mine in my mind – you can never tell which prayer God would answer.

While I was lamenting my present predicament, which would have been bearable if my earpiece weren’t broken, a scuffle was budding in the middle of the aisle. 

“You dey craze! No dey press my body!” A dark girl, probably in her twenties, was shouting at a man standing behind her.

“Who dey press your body?! I go tear you slap! I be your mate?”

“Ah! Try am! I say make you try am, if I no go show you craze!”

The preacher, most likely vexed that his sermon has been disturbed, was asking the man and the girl to calm down and not give way to the devil. I cocked my head to get a better view of what was happening. There was a sly grin on my face. 

Apparently, the man who must be in his 30s had been groping the girl’s butt with his groin. And the said girl happen to have a large butt. Lucky horny bastard! I thought. 

The girl was shouting and cursing, to which the man was threatening to give her a sound beating. My perverse mind wanted to ask what kind of beating he was referring to. But the preacher stepped in and asked the man to “act like a man” and kindly move away from the girl. 

The man moved back a bit, he  kept grumbling trying to attest his innocence. But the slight bulge on his trousers which he was trying to hide proved to be an irrefutable evidence. 

Some of the passengers that had been discussing politics and the state of the nation prior to the incident found a way to relate it to politics. The government is to be blamed, they said, for the hike in fuel price which the transport workers cashed in on and consequently made poor Nigerians pack themselves like sardines in a bus. 

Perhaps the molue parliamentarians were half, I thought, or why else would over a hundred people pack themselves in a bus meant to accommodate about 52 sitting and about 20 standing passengers? Yes, we might as well blame the government when a man has a hard on in a public transport.

We had just gone past Under bridge and inching towards Cement. The traffic around Under bridge is always a cause for concern and it gets worse at night.

The preacher had gone back to sharing the work of God. He was now asking us to donate to God’s work. And I was back to lamenting not being able to listen to J. Cole. The unfinished assignment I was heading to school to get done and submit before deadline didn’t even bother me a bit. The lecturer might as well go fly a kite! Nah who Theories of Communication don help?

“Madam, please calm down.” I heard the preacher say. Is this also part of the sermon? I tilt my neck to find out. Evidently, it wasn’t.

“You too, calm down.” A rather large woman near the preacher stood up and said. She was almost fair. Her skin looked tan or reddish – the after effect of mediocre skin-bleaching. “Lataro! No be Iyana Ipaja we agree say you go stop? Kilode gaaan!”

“Madam take it easy, I’m almost done. Don’t disturb God’s work!” The preacher said quite calmly. 

“Shoro niyen!” the woman raised her voice and looked around. “E ma gba mi keh! Make I no sell my own market because you dey do God work! Ara yin o ya Sir!”

I almost laughed. Yoruba folks are so well-mannered that if you should annoy them, they would insult you without forgetting to add that tone or mark of respect. She kept hurling insults at the preacher, who responded with carefully chosen words.

A number of self-appointed adjudicators (which was almost everyone in the bus) tried to quell the dispute at the same time. 

The driver and the front conductor were less concerned about the uproar in the bus. They themselves were engaged in another task; hurling insults at the father of a danfo driver that was dragging the lane with them.

The woman who is a herbal medicine seller, told the numerous self-appointed adjudicators that when the bus was loading at Sango, she had an agreement (which was witnessed by the driver) with the preacher. 

He was supposed to preach till the got to Iyana Ipaja and she would sell her wares from Iyana Ipaja till the bus got to Oshodi. But that the preacher was selfish and by inference, a thief.

“Woman, don’t insult me!” the preacher who was now seated shouted. “I won’t take insults from you. Useless woman!”

“You are a useless man too! Olé! Theif! Fake pastor!”

And so began a tirade of abuse and counter-abuse till we got to Cement bus stop, where the preacher alighted in anger, thereby rounding off his sermon with proclaiming the woman a witch and “a devil-sprout enemy of the Gospel”.

Without wasting time, the woman brought out her wares; various bottles and sachets of herbal medicines. She started by telling us some jokes, a number of which were made at the  preacher’s expense. In no time we forgot about the preacher. 

The herbal medicine woman was very jovial and engaged almost everyone in what seemed like a question and answer session. She made use of sexually suggestive words to describe the efficacy of some of her drugs. Perhaps, if she were educated and were in the teaching career, she would make a good lecturer. 

I found myself wanting to participate in this make-shift class. But I was strictly observing my policy of don’t-talk-with-nobody-in-public-transport. So I kept my mouth shut.

We got to Along-Ikeja, where some people alighted only to be replaced by an equal number of people. A strange looking fellow got in and stood beside me. He was garbed in a red polo over Ankara trousers with white and blue tennis shoes to match or mis-match. The smell of alcohol hung around him like a buddy. I sought to move away from him but I couldn’t – it was an impossible move. 

To change position or where you stand in a molue is like playing chess; a square need to be made vacant to move except you want to knock somebody over. So I maintained my position and acted like he wasn’t there.

Then the conductor came up to him and asked for the bus fare. And what a surprise when this fellow nudged me and said, “Padi mi ma san wo.” 

What! Did this bottle-kissing clown just called me his friend that’s gonna pay his fare? 

Maybe the conductor didn’t get the joke, “Fine boy, owo da?” he asked me. I wanted to laugh and say “Excuse me!” or “Pardon?” like my primary school teacher once insisted. But this fool was about to “show me Lagos” in my grandma's words. Well the “Mushin” in my birth certificate is not for decoration.

“E be like say dem dey do you! Who be your padi? Nah me carry you enter molue?” I said to the strange fellow. Then I turned to the conductor and said, “Egbon, e gba owo yin lowo e o. Emi o mo iya e ri!”

The conductor barked at him. And the strange fellow barked in like-manner telling the conductor to get lost. The conductor threatened to beat him up and parcel his bones to his village. The strange fellow who was too drunk to stand straight also threatened to beat up the conductor like a child. You couldn’t tell who was sane or not. 

And while all this was going on I stood in their middle looking like a total idiot. 

Several thoughts were running through my mind: Am I the cause of this? Can y’all stop staring at me? But what if this clown actually succeeds in beating this conductor like a child? Does that mean he will also beat the shit out of me for not paying his bus fare?

The conductor finally got tired of the crap and shouted at the driver to stop the vehicle. The driver suddenly applied the brakes. And we lurched forward suddenly. We all cursed the driver. 

Then the conductor, with the assistant, booted the strange fellow out of the molue. This happened around Airport turning before when approaching P.W.D.

I sighed thanking God that the ugly scene was over. Then I wondered what the molue parliamentarians would say but they were again engaged by the herbal medicine woman.

My tired legs found relief when we got to P.W.D. I sat the moment some space were vacant. Not much people were left standing. And so we had a peaceful journey from P.W.D, Shogunle, Ladipo till Bolade where the devil was waiting for us.

Some market women, that sat at the back with baskets and sacks of various goods, wanted to alight at Bolade. But the driver and his conductors said they won’t stop at Bolade. The market women began beating the body of the bus and shouting that they would show the driver the mother of all devils if he doesn’t stop at Bolade. 

Then everyone else began shouting at the driver to drop the market women at Bolade. It was a complete madhouse.

Finally, the driver heeded and frantically applied the brakes at Bolade. He barked that the market women should quickly get their goods off his vehicle, to which they sarcastically replied that he would do better to come and throw them through the windows. 

While these women were unloading their goods, two agberos sprang out from nowhere and yanked the driver away from his seat. 

Apparently, the driver, who was owing about a week's worth of park tax had been evading the agberos for some time now. But thanks to the market women, nemesis finally caught up with him. The two conductors went to meet the agberos so as to rescue the driver. A fight ensued. The two agberos against the driver and his conductors. 

And so we were in the molue looking like abandoned babies at a day-care centre. The fight was quite interesting: the agberos, whose basic job requirement is the practical know-how of street fight and thuggery, were beating the living daylights out of the molue trio. 

I glanced at my watch and decided to leave. Not because it was about an hour to my assignment’s deadline. But because there was no way a pulped and bloodied driver can manoeuvre this molue. After all, Bolade to Oshodi-Under bridge is just 5 minutes walk.

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