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Few men or women can defy the fury of Lagos bus conductors – truly a breed apart. They are often compared to the Matanga, their brothers in Nairobi who rule over buses called Matatu – a rambunctious bunch, frequently drunk on changa’a, a poisonous local brew mixed with chemicals, more virulent than our paraga or shepe. But there the comparison ends.

Where our conductor leaves the Kenyan in the shade is in his limitless vocabulary for abuse, his complete disregard for passengers, his volcanic mood swings.

The matatu is not a comfortable means of travel by any means, but it is not a danfo or molue. The Kenyan buses usually have tickets and bus numbers; sometimes have arrival and departure times; fixed number of passengers and well defined routes and bus stops. Another thing, the matanga is polite to his passengers.

The Lagos bus conductor enjoys fighting his passengers. And veterans of such battles sometimes have symptoms akin to post traumatic stress disorder; like soldiers after a war. They look dazed long after the encounter; walking and talking to themselves, hardly conscious as they cross the road.

I have seen nice women turn ugly with rage within minutes with a conductor, and gentlemen act like thugs. Yes, Lagos conductors do bring out the worst in us. So, most people run away from the experience, guarding their brittle self-esteem from the ferocious attack of those who seem to have lost theirs.

But, occasionally, one comes across people who really don’t mind the roforofo fight. At Lekki, the other day, I took a bus going to CMS, when a young man in sparkling orange long-sleeved shirt and earphones, came on. “CMS na N100,” said the conductor.

Moments later, the youth brought out ₦70 and gave the conductor, who promptly rejected the money. “You no hear me when I say ₦100?” he hissed. The young man unplugged his ears. “What are you bitching about now?” he asked.

“Your money is ₦100,” spat the conductor.

“But why didn’t you tell me that before I entered?” demanded the passenger.

The conductor turned to the rest of the bus. “Una dey help me see trouble? I no talk am say na ₦100 for any drop?” Nobody answered.

The young man vigorously denied hearing anything like that. “Why would I have entered for a hundred? Am I crazy?”

The conductor screamed, “How you go hear when you put that thing for ear?” The guy shouted back, ‘’Bone that thing. I am not paying you ₦100!”

The driver had taken a detour through Oniru, to avoid traffic. But we kept hitting these bumps and when we hit a particularly bad patch and the bus jumped so high, the woman beside me screamed, “Driver, no commot my belle o, I take God beg you,” the driver chuckled, “Madam, no worry, oga go put another one back.”

“You no well,” she said.

One man asked, “So are you going to pay her husband for all the work then?” The driver smiled, “How I go pay another man for enjoying his own wife?” he asked.

One man was, however, not amused by the driving. He wore a torn shirt and a gaunt face and his voice was loud. “Oga this is the last time you go hit my head for this bus,” he said, rubbing his brow. “No try am again. If I wound, when I come down, I go wound you!”

As soon as we reached the bus stop, the young man with the earphone jumped down. The conductor immediately grabbed him. ‘’You wan go with my money?” he asked.

The young man warned, “If I count three and your hand is still holding my shirt, I will cut it off!” The conductor discarded his slippers and stood bare feet on the hot asphalt. “Make I help you count am?” he said, and went, “One, two, three… Oya now!” The passenger pocketed his earphone and calmly began to fold the sleeves of his shirt.

The driver came down. “Collect the money,” he said to the conductor. “For, surely, there will always be temptations like this. But we don’t have to fall.”

The conductor snatched the money and turned to him. “This one wey you don turn pastor so,” he said.