MY MOLUE EXPERIENCE

Being a born and bred Lagos babe doesn't guarantee that one wouldn't exhibit some "villageism" traits.  Don't bother to look for that word in the dictionary; it's from the heavens. 

Throwing back to the first time I came across a proper molue bus and I can't stop asking myself if I was actually the one that displayed that level of araokoness.

It was my first time in Oshodi; one of the craziest place in Lagos. Forget the semi tush Oshodi that has evolved now. Oshodi used to be, and is still if I'm not mistaken, the headquarter of all atrocities: both the invented one and the one Satan is still thinking of inventing. 

My mum had planned to pay my cousin a visit at Abule Egba and since I was not so used to going out, she decided to take me along. The journey was smooth until we got to Oshodi. I saw all shades of rickety old long buses popularly known as "molue"  painted in yellow and white. The buses looked like they were going to fall to the side at anytime. 

My prayer point at that time was for my mum not to opt for it but to my greatest surprise, my mum was already inside. Mobola was still counting bridges outside. Ko funny! E remain small for me to start crying like a typical child on his/her first day of school "my mummy"

Trust this woman to yell at me to board the bus but I was in a confused state. The bus was still on motion with tons of people squeezing themselves to enter, both the ones with fountain of sweat on their body and the ones with mountain of loads. I managed to enter, however, not with my legs. That moment when it's like a chariot of wind is carrying one. Then my worst nightmare began. I held on tight to the pole beside me, driving the bus alongside with the driver. My mum kept laughing.

On a norm, I do have motion sickness although it's getting better now. Being squeezed in that bus was enough to activate my motion sickness. I was sweaty, nauseous, uncomfortable and all shades of discomfort one can think of but my mama no send. It was obvious she was used to it.

Trouble came when the driver tried to turn in a corner. Oluwa o! I couldn't contain it any longer. Mobola screamed Jesus. In my head, the bus had already fallen over. The laughter that ensued made me open an eye only to realize we haven't fallen. People concluded that I was a JJC plus my threading hairstyle was not helping matters. How do I explain to them that I was born and bred in Lagos but I don't just like going out?

In all these, one will think my mum would talk. Iro o! Mama throway face and joined the league of those laughing at me. It was a typical case of OYO (on your own).

The jest still continues till date. Anytime she sees a molue bus or this luxurious bus that travels to the East, she's always like "Bola, see your bus"

whispers It's not like I've gotten over the fear of such buses falling down o. Shhhhhh! don't tell anyone o. Ehn ehn.

Till I write again,

Mobola.