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The music filled the bus and the driver tapped his chubby fingers to the rhythm.

“Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop something/Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop something/We dey pop champagne, pop champagne…”

He cradled the
steering wheel to his huge belly, his fat cheeks eternally seeming on
the verge of breaking into a smile. You could see how hard he had tried
to groom himself; the long nails chipped in parts; the dark oily hair
cut in the style called Gallas, tribute to the former Arsenal player
who made it so famous.

He seemed a bit too
old for relaxers and shady hairstyles, but the twinkle in his eye said
that perhaps he knew that, but so what? His check-shirt hugged his gut
so tight the buttons appeared ready to pop at the next big meal of
amala and ewedu washed down with the inevitable Gulder. Oh, yes, he
looked like a man who enjoyed his food with some brew.

But he was not a
big talker, preferring to limit his vocal efforts to singing the chorus
of the Dr. Sid/D’Banj song. When an angry driver overtook our bus,
hurling insults at him for no apparent reason, he didn’t even shout
back. He gazed placidly at the fellow through his window, and placing
an index finger to the side of his head, he turned it sharply, like a
screw. At Ogudu, he stopped to pick up an odd couple; a smallish fellow
in the garish colours of the LASTMA uniform and a much taller man. It
was soon clear that he knew them both. On spying the shorter guy, he
began to protest after they entered: “Oh no, no!”, shaking his head
like one who had committed an irredeemable blunder.

“Egbon,” he said,
addressing the tall chap and pointedly ignoring the uniformed fellow,
“I seriously thought you were alone. Seriously. I don’t usually carry
these wicked people.”

Goliath chuckled.

“Because of me,” he said, settling down, “Carry am today, I beg.”

The LASTMA official
pursed his lips, predicting dire consequences for errant drivers who
didn’t know how to show respect for authority. The driver made a face
and laughed. Suddenly, a bike man cut into our lane from the blind side
and went speeding past without a care.

“The people who drive okada are crazy,” he said quietly, “Every single one of them.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you an oxymoron: a danfo driver with no stress.

Sitting beside him
up front, I again wondered what it was about fat men that makes you
feel comfortable in their company. They seemed more able to absorb
life’s pressures, to hide their neuroses under all those layers of
flesh. I remembered Caesar saying to Anthony: “Let me have men about me
that are fat; sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights,” and I
thought, the Roman general would have loved this bus driver.

I got down at Ojota
feeling quite mellow, as if I had indeed popped some champagne, and I
began to see Lagosians differently. At the criminally built steps of
the overhead bridge at Ojota, an elderly lady with a tall load
stumbled, and a dashing young woman in an Afro and elegant shoes
stepped forward: “Mama, let me help you with the load,” she said. The
elderly woman refused, but the smile on her wrinkled face was priceless.

At the other end of the bridge, I ran into a schoolboy helping a blind man negotiate the bustle, and they were both laughing.

“Can they not see too?” asked the blind man every time someone
brushed past him. And their laughter would resume. I looked around me.
Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, all the Lagos madness gone. It
looked like my danfo driver’s attitude was catching. Yeah, pop the
champagne jare. Eko o ni baje.