There are times I wish I was physically enormous and of a violent disposition so that I could deal with any problem that arises near me in a fashion that is commensurate with the anger I feel.
One such time was in 1997, back when I lived at Okupe Estate in Maryland. I had gone to Somolu to visit my friend, Obafemi Obadare, now of The Punch editorial board. What I had on me was just enough to take me back home from his place on Bajulaye Street. At about 7pm, he walked me off to where I would board a bus to Palm Grove and from there to Maryland.
The bus I boarded took me to Palm Grove, where I saw a dense thicket of passengers trying to get on a bus. I knew I had to get off the bus I was in, or I’d spend a long time waiting to get another. 
I forced my way out and jumped into the bus with a conductor shouting, “Hey land, hey land, wole pelu change e,” in a Wike-like growl. This was at Shipeolu Street. I thought he was calling to passengers going to Maryland. Lagos conductors tend to be unable to call destinations properly.
Long story short. The bus got moving, and I discovered that it turned back into Shipeolu, from whence I had come. I thought there was another route to Maryland from there. After, like, three minutes, my brain switched back on, and I asked the conductor if that was where his driver was taking me to Maryland.
This time, the growl was much deeper than Wike’s. It was werewolf level. “O n’siere. Se mo pe Maryland fun e?” he asked. He said I was mad and asked if I heard him shout Maryland. One woman said the bus was going to Ladi Lak. I am dead! (Pardon that). My head went into a spin. I told the conductor to let me get off. This time, I was double-teamed by him and his driver.
“Mo ro p’ori yin ti daru” meaning I think you’re nuts, said the driver relatively sedately. The conductor was menacing. “Ab’olosi l’egbon yi ni? O je m’owo mi jade. Mo pe Maryland fun e, abi? Wa gba” which meant “Are you poverty-ravaged? Bring out the fare for the trip. Did you hear me shout ‘Maryland’?”. Both men were sprinkling insults like confetti.
The expletives made me furious. But the threat to have me pay the fare to a place I wasn’t going almost castrated me. If he took what I had on me, I’d have had to trek home. That wasn’t one of the evening’s aspirations. I kept demanding, tamely, I have to say, to be allowed to get off.
Eventually, other passengers supported me, and the driver pulled over—but not without a final earful. The insult that stung the most was their claim that I was a broke hitchhiker trying to scam a free ride.
As I stood on the curb, I felt like responding with my fists, but I remembered the old wisdom: even if a dog is crazy, it knows to avoid fire (if dog dey craze, e dry sabi fire). I watched them drive off, swallowed my rage, and focused on the long journey home.
Written by: Bamidele Johnson
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