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Oshodi oke! Oshodi oke! Isale ma wole o!!!

My ride had arrived and I knew that was my que to drop my worries, certificate, big grammar and sanity at the bus-stop and put on the whole amour of survival for the fittest.

A place where comments like ” Aunty dress Na, abeg no space for here, make Una Shift Na”, welcomes you.

A #noclasssegmentation zone as you can’t really tell the graduates from the school drop outs. A place that doesn’t tell the difference between white and blue as long as you had a collar; if could afford the fare, you’re covered.

A place where my business is everyone’s business but no one’s business”, with a special chapter in the book of lamentations.

A place where dirty laundries are aired effortlessly. You could tell that market was bad today, mama Ngozi’s husband beat her again, iya Salamo had put to bed, Tosan’s husband was seeing another woman, Papa Bornboy is sad his wife is pregnant for the 6th time but he’s hopeful it’s a boy this time around, oh! we knew the horrible bosses.

To get on the conductors’ good side come in with the exact change, to avoid judgmental stares greet before sitting, better still greet in your native language, so you won’t be the “omo ti o leko”.

Filled with people holding self acclaimed degrees in morality, relationships, marriage , economics, politics, culture, comedy and the greatest honour Religion.

A mini science lab with a concussion of Mama Sikira’s fish smell, aboki’s perfumes, the conductor’s ogogoro, mouth odours, body odours and farts.

I dunno which tickles my fancy the most, the pictures of 2 Pac, osupa saheed, pasuma; or the posters of temples to be visted to get rich quick, cure for diabetic, gonorrhea , fibroids, and latest miracle services.

To survive, you can’t afford not to know a little about politics and football. It inspires you to let go and let live, make friends you could never dream of speaking to in a lifetime.

Oshodi! Oshodi! Oshodi!
looking forward to another time out in the Danfo