As we cross Herbert Macaulay, I’m considering two *danfos
idling by the side of the road, their conductors screaming ‘Balende! Balende!’
and ushering, sometimes almost shoving, potential passengers towards their
buses. I pick the second one; it looks good and solid on the outside, though I
hate that it has something like a wall behind the driver’s seat so I can’t see
the road in front of me. I enter with a mental shrug – it looks better than the
other bus – and wave goodbye to my friend.
I sit on the first bench, beside the window; it’s my favourite
danfo position. There’s a man in the front seat, beside the driver, and another
sitting behind me. I settle in and watch the street. Three more passengers get
in, and the man behind me gets up and leaves the bus, returning the nod the
conductor gives him. He’s one of those people conductors get to sit in their
buses to make them look fuller, so impatient commuters would be convinced to
enter. I’m not annoyed by this trick today; I’m not in a hurry. After a few minutes,
the bus starts to move and I relax, confident that I’d chosen the right bus.
The ride is measured and smooth and the engine works at a less than deafening
roar.
We are not quite at the end of Third Mainland Bridge when
the bus jerks once, twice. The engine sputters, and the driver starts to steer
the bus to the right, to the lane overlooking the water. I am peering through
the partition in front of me and then out the window, wondering what’s stopping
us and frustrated that I can’t see the road ahead. When the bus stops, the
driver and conductor confirm that the fuel has run out. Someone makes a joke,
says the conductor should get out a hose and suck water from the lagoon to move
the bus. I don’t laugh, but the other passengers do. Did I miss something? We’re
on Third Mainland! Cars, BRT buses and other danfos are whizzing past, and with
every gust of wind that marks their passing I’m slowly freaking out, looking
left, right, behind, so I will see when the speeding vehicle crashes into us
from behind. Another danfo slows down behind us and stops. I get up
immediately, to rush out and join the other bus. I can see the blue green water
of the lagoon from over the bridge rails.
“Excuse me, let me get down.” I’m avoiding looking at the
lagoon below. There are three passengers seated beside me, blocking my path to the
door. There’s a chorus of ‘ahn-ahn, wait first… we go soon move’ from the
passengers and nobody’s moving. I plop back down on my seat.
A few seconds more of indeterminate activity between our
conductor and the driver of the other bus, and I’m ready to get out again. I
stand.
“Please, excuse me, abeg. I
want to get down.”
The
men beside me laugh. No need, they say. Our bus will get to Obalende before the
one behind us. I’m about to insist, but our bus is suddenly rammed into from
behind and it starts to move again, fuelled by the momentum from the bus behind.
The movement forces me back on my bum and the journey continues. The other
danfo stays faithfully behind us, pushing every time we lose momentum, leaving
us to roll forward only when it stops at Adeniji Bus Stop to let out some
passengers. Another bus takes over ramming us forward, and a fat woman comments
on this show of solidarity. Apparently I’m the only one who thinks we should
have just switched buses when we had the chance. The other passangers take up
the fat woman’s comment, comparing danfo drivers to the okada and taxi men,
praising them on how they are so supportive of each other, if you had beef
with one you’d have to deal with them all.
Me, I’m staring out the
window, my lips stiff, wondering when I entered into this alternate universe
where Lagosians are so merry and tolerant.
*Danfo: 14 to 16 (sometimes more) seater buses, usually painted yellow and black, used for public transport in Lagos
