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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.