THE CONDUCTOR'S LETTER

IT'S A LONG ONE BUT I BET THIS IS WORTH

EVERY BIT OF UR TIME.

LETTER FROM A LAGOS CONDUCTOR, TO A DEAR

PASSENGER

Dear Friend,
Do not be surprised that I am writing you, especially after our last encounter. I know that I
do not come across to you as someone who can put words to paper, but like a wise man once
said "Your tenses and verbs do not all have to agree for you to pass a message; you only need
to have something to say, that won't stay unsaid".

You have no idea how it feels, when you look at me the way you do, when you shout on me for
your change and call me all sorts of names. See, I’ve developed a hard shell to ward off your
vituperation. There, that's a word you didn't think I had, right? See, I went to primary
school, and read a couple of those story books. I also read the papers every morning while I
wait for my driver to shack Ogogoro at Iya Lateef's kiosk at the park. My English is not so
bad. Don't worry, I won’t mess this up. So this hard shell that I’ve developed, it wasn't always
there you know, when I started this job, I went home depressed day after day, because of those
things you said to me. They made me feel worthless.

But I am not writing this letter to accuse you or anything of sorts. You are human too, just like Iam, and we all have our weaknesses. I bear no grudge against you. I simply want to set the record straight. I want you to stop for a moment, and get a glimpse of my world. Thisjob is hard, and if I had a better choice, I wouldn't be doing it, but, like they say "When the desirable is not available, the available becomes desirable". I wanted to be a doctor, please don't laugh at me. I would have made it if Papa hadn't abandoned my mother when I was 14. He left her for Fatimah, a woman that sold food close to his work place. He was a railway worker. His pay was not much but it was enough to take care of his wife and three children. At least we never went to school hungry, and we ate rice with meat every Sunday. He used to buy Suya every evening, and on few occasions, we even killed a ram. Papa would call all our neighbours and we'd all eat together and be
happy. He was that kind of man.

It all started one night when he came home late, reeking of alcohol. Mama confronted him and he beat her, he beat her in front of us. Everything changed after that. His late night home-comings intensified, and the quarrels acquired a new dimension. He'd beat Mama, and after that, he'd rape her in our presence. We were kids, we couldn't do anything. We just cried and cried and begged him not to hurt our mother but he did anyway. One night, he wanted to hit her with a stick, and I held him back, it took all the courage in me to do that, but I did. I held him by the legs, and we both toppled to the ground. He was shouting and threatening to kill us all, and my mother and sisters kept on crying and pleading with me to let him go, but I held on to him, until our neighbors intervened. He stopped paying our school fees after that, stopped bringing money for food. He became a stranger.
One night he didn't come back. We had left the door open thinking that he would come back later in the night but when we woke up in the morning, his place on the sofa was empty. We waited for one week, two weeks, two months, still no sign of him, until one day, Mama's customer at the market told her that she saw
her husband at Fatimah's house. They were now living together and he seemed happy to her she said.

Mama was devastated but she didn't show it.She is a strong woman. She bore it all in silence, and never complained. Her small income from her petty trade was not enough to pay the rent and feed us, let alone send us to school. I had to stop going to school to help her with family responsibilities. At 14, I had become a man, and I had to take care of my mother. My uncle said that when he visited one Sunday. "kunle, you are now a man, you hear me, you are now a man, you have to start taking care of your mother and little sisters".
Baba Seyi, our neighbor owned a bus. One evening, I heard him telling my Mama that his conductor made away with his money, that he couldn't trust any of these boys anymore and that he was considering selling the bus to go into Hemp business. I heard there is money there now, he said. I heard Mama strongly advise him against such illegal business. It would land you in prison, she said.

When he left, I went to mama, and told her that I would like to join Baba Seyi as his conductor. I would make a lot of money, and she and my siblings wouldn't have to suffer anymore. At first she was hesitant. She said it was too risky and that conductors were touts. No, that wasn't her dream for her son. I was going to be a doctor. You will be a doctor, eh Kunle, you hear me? You will be a doctor! Olorun a ran wa lo wo. (God will help us)You hear?
Yes Mami.
I joined Baba seyi anyway and lied to him that Mama had given her consent. When I came home with my first five hundred Naira, Mama was overjoyed. She danced around the room and praised me. Okomi,(my husband) she said, God will bless you.
We didn't have the discussion again. I was now employed as a conductor. At first I was polite to passengers, but I soon discovered that politeness isn't a virtue in this job. Many of them stalled on paying for their fares, until you forgot and they alighted. Several times I had to fill in with my own money, because Baba Seyi would not hear of a missing penny. So I put my buttocks down and learnt the trade. I learned to feign my voice, to make it croaky and hoarse. I learned to squeeze my face, to give myself this unattractive and
dangerous look. I learnt to hop in and out of moving vehicles, to shout the hell out of any passenger intent on dulling my hustle, to fight any over-ambitious Agbero. I learnt them all. I toughened my skin, because in this our job, you are either on top of your game or you are out.

I am not always like this. What you see in the bus is just a front. At home I am the sweetest person you'd ever meet. I have to be like this to keep my job. So when I shout on you, and call you all sorts of names, do not take it personal. You would help matters if you gave me your fare when I ask for it and learned to be a little bit patient with me when I’m still looking for change to give you. Sometimes I may forget or you may
forget, and I have to be honest, at times I pray that you do, because when you forget your change, My driver won't know about it. The money goes into my pocket. However when you want to remind me of your change, please be polite, you are supposed to be the civilized person.

I apologize for the other day, I didn't mean to call you an Olofofo, but you pushed me, you pushed me. Was it my fault that you entered with 1000 naira? You heard me saying "500, 1000 no enter o", but you entered anyway, and when I could not find change to give you, you started abusing me. I forgive you. I know it’s hard sometimes, this Lagos traffic. It can get to you in ways you can't imagine. See, we don't have to be this way, you and I. We aren't enemies. After all without you I wouldn't have this job, and without me, well, I won’t say you wouldn't be able to move around, but I make it a lot easier for you. We need each other.

See this letter as a kind of white flag, and if you can, share it with your friends, I cannot write to everyone. I have to continue my hustle. I just hope I have been able to say something worth saying, I don't know. All I know is that these words that I have so painstakingly written to you wouldn't have stayed unsaid. They would have burned a crater in my heart, and found a way out anyway. I do feel a lot better. Write to me if you can. I'd like to hear your side of the story.
This is mine.
Yours
Kunle, the Lagos conductor