(By Jude Idada)
The driver kept his hand on the horn of the bus.
The honk was loud, continous and vexatious.
The honk was loud, continous and vexatious.
And as though obeying the order
of a conductor in an orchestra, the other drivers in the cars and buses around
the bus, did the exact thing.
The din was deafening.
The abuses started flying in
pidgin and Yoruba as each driver cursed out the other driver.
I watched in silence from the
first row of the bus in which I sat.
Wondering how vehicularly quiet
the streets of Toronto were in comparison to those of Lagos. So quiet, you
could go through a year without hearing the honk of a car.
We were heading to Victoria
Garden City in Lekki and the traffic jam at the Jakande Junction - fifth
roundabout - was holding us hostage.
I noticed his stare.


