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I can’t suppress the feeling of glee that is fast spreading through me. I pull out my phone and furiously click away, to the extreme chagrin of my companions. Everyone else ignores me because anyone this excited to be at a BRT bus stop is defiantly insane. And in this era or swine flu only God knows what else is catching.
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Please don’t call me spoilt; I just haven’t been on public transport since my early high school years. This evasion was mainly due to parental decree, but that aside I probably would have gone the same route. Just thinking of being compressed with strangers and even stranger smells in a bus like sardines under the Lagos sun gives me a headache. I read somewhere that Asa finds this environment stimulating for her music but I just never got it.
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Anyway today’s opportunity presented itself after another wasted Friday morning of volleyball practice. After another grueling build-up to nothing [the coach forces everyone to participate in the warm up, but only his dream team see any court time…only volley foreplay for me] The real reason for my lack of play may be because I got mouthy but I seriously had nothing better to do.
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After two hours of sitting out, I am way past ready to leave. I had planned to catch a cab, but the appeal of a fraction of the cab’s cost and travel companions presented themselves to me in the form of an alternate way home. The bus. Two of my teammates are heading my way. I bit and it tastes great.
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Here is what I have to say… Haters! Please leave Fash and BRT alone. Also as a small side note people please drop you bus stubs and general trash in well the trash. “eko o ni ba je”. I mean, what more do you want? The seats are comfortable; the destination clear [without the usual ruckus of shouting], it has a set price and adequate standing space and if that is still to crowded the next bus is minutes away.
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In contrast the rest of my journey, though nostalgic, is the exact opposite. The Marina to Eko hotel by danfo leg of my journey is a combination of uncomfortable invasion of my personal space and a general assault to my nose. My teammate informs me that prices fluctuate from N50 to N70 depending on traffic. She manages to catch a few Z’s as soon as we get on board so I return to my camera phone. When we drop my lower lady lump is completely nub and I now carry the faint scent of the sweat, not mine on me [eww]. I briefly consider getting on an okada. But I continue to maintain that Nigerian motorcyclists are mental. All in all an enjoyable experience, worth repeating if the opportunity presents itself.