It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
“Driver you no sabi anything. Abeg give me space make I show you how to beat this yeye traffic wey be like wetin winch dey invoke to life.” That black uniform, that desperate voice making us question what the law stood for these days, was part of us Lagosians returning home from our various hard-knock lives, on a Friday evening, 7:00 pm. From Obalende to Yaba we prayed for a free passage since Lagos signed a con tract with “go slow.” It is not the only thing slow about us. The Police become your friend when all odds are against the populace. They can even break the law to make you safe. Isn’t it ironic? The Police become your friend when it rains and they need shelter in your store or your vehicle or your shack. The police were more than a friend to us when we found ourselves positioned in a single spot for an hour. Traffic became our common enemy. Passengers cursed, drivers lamented: “petrol wen pesin buy today now go finish today.” Radios w...