A few weeks ago, I was driving along the Apapa-Oshodi Expressway and stopped briefly under the Ilasamaja Bridge to pick a call. Suddenly, a Danfo bus screeched beside me, and the conductor jumped down—landing just beside my car.
I thought I was about to be robbed.
“Oshodi Oshodi Oshodi ooo…”
The conductor wailed.
I exhaled sharply, then inhaled deeper when I saw his face.
Gbenga?!
I couldn’t be mistaken. No number of years could erase the memory. That was Gbenga. Back in school, he was brilliant. The kind of guy who called a phrase “an adjectival proverb” and everyone nodded—even the teachers.
His mental maths? Olympic-level.
He’d solve quadratic equations in his head like he was casually counting change.
He was so sharp, he made some teachers uncomfortable—and they hated him quietly for it.
We all believed Gbenga was destined for greatness.
He was our class star, voted “Most Likely to Succeed.”
“Oshodi oke ooo… enter with your change…
He continued shouting, gripping the door of the moving bus.
I poked my head out the window.
“Gbengene!” I shouted his old nickname.
He froze. Only his day-ones knew that name.
He stared, then lit up with the fire of recognition.
I jumped out, and we hugged like old thieves reunited—his sweaty frame soaking my shirt. I didn’t care.
“Viko ómó’lòpè, you don fresh die o!”
He hailed me in full street glory. We couldn’t talk long though—his driver was already blaring the horn like a madman. I collected his number and watched him jump back into the Danfo, clinging to the door like it was a lifeline. He smiled at me, baring teeth stained with years of weed and lost dreams.
Then he was gone—swallowed by the ever-hungry Lagos road.
I stood rooted, overwhelmed by sadness.
What happened, Gbenga?
Days later, I had another encounter. A flip-side. A plot twist that made me question life itself.
I was on Admiralty Way in Lekki, stopped at the AP/Tantalizers junction to shine my shoes.
As the Aboki worked passionately, a black Range Rover Sport suddenly halted behind me. The tyres screeched so violently I dove for cover.
God forbid bad thing!
When I peeked from behind the car, trying to curse the reckless driver, I saw a familiar face behind the wheel.
No, wait…
It couldn’t be…
I rubbed my eyes.
Yes! It was Bala. Balarabe, the class dullard. The same Bala who couldn’t spell “banana” even with help. This guy was so academically challenged, his own report card used to pity him.
We used to say:
“If destiny is delayed, see Bala. If it
’s denied, see him again.”
This was the guy who could barely string a full sentence, who never made a single impression in school—apart from comic relief.
So, I assumed: “He must be the driver.”
Wrong move. Big mistake.
Turns out, Bala owned the damn Range Rover!
He saw me, grinned wide, and invited me for drinks.
At The Sailors Lounge, over a plate of peppered snails and a bottle of Martell, Bala told me his story.
After school, he took a few crash courses, reinvented himself, worked with a shipping company in Apapa. His honesty and work ethic stood out. The owner mentored him. Bala learned the ropes, mastered the business, and eventually started his own shipping company.
Bala—the same Bala—was now CEO.
“God, abeg. What are you cooking?”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept bouncing between Gbenga and Bala.
Two classmates. Two opposite destinies. Same city. Different lanes.
And it hit me hard:
The race is not to the swift,
Nor the battle to the strong,
Nor riches to men of understanding,
Nor favor to men of skill.
But time and chance happen to them all. — Ecclesiastes 9:11
Life?
Life is a Lagos danfo—no matter how brilliant you are, if you miss your bus, you go trek.
So, to all my dreamers out there feeling lost or late…
It is not over until it is over.
Gbe body é.
