ALL OF US ARE MENT IN IBADAN EP1

 

Wahala for Beere Junction

Beere Junction was as rowdy as ever. Buses and bikes weaved through the traffic like headless chickens, traders shouted over each other, and the air smelled of fried akara, burnt petrol, and too many people in one place.

Anike adjusted the  bag in her hand, filled with school materials she just bought at Beere Market. She had to hurry back to her aunt’s shop in Amuloko  before the woman started cursing her village people. She flagged down a danfo, the kind that looked like it had seen the end of the world and survived.

"Wole pelu change o!” the conductor yelled, hanging by the door like a stubborn lizard.

Anike climbed in and squeezed herself onto a tiny space beside an old woman chewing kola nut. The moment her butt touched the seat, the driver—a pot-bellied man with bloodshot eyes—slammed the gear and took off.

“EGBAMI O!” a woman screamed as the bus jerked forward, nearly throwing everyone out.

“Driver, small small?” Anike shouted.

The man didn’t answer. He was too busy honking, cursing, and swerving the bus like he was being chased. A group of alabaru—market women carrying loads on their heads—scattered out of the way as the danfo nearly hit them.

“Ah! Driver, take am easy nau!” someone begged.

The conductor, a short guy with tribal marks, grinned. “Sister, welcome to Ibadan transport. If you no wan enter, make you come down.”

Before Anike could respond, a loud GBAM! shook the bus.

“JESU! A ti ku o!” someone screamed.

The bus had rammed into a woman’s plantain stall. Plantains rolled onto the road, crushed under moving tires as people shouted. The woman, a dark-skinned trader with wrapper tied across her chest, stormed toward the bus.

“Driver, you're in debt! You don scatter my market!”

The driver didn’t even blink. “Mama, if you wan cry, go police station go report.”

Anike shook her head. She should have trekked instead.

Beere Junction and wahala—five and six.