Lagos was already on fire by 7:15 a.m.
Sweat glued Ifeoma's neck to her collar, and the conductor was shouting like his life depended on it.
"Oshodi! Ikeja! O wa o!"
He banged the side of the danfo like it owed him money.
She squeezed in, clutching her makeup bag like gold. Today's client was a bride—late was not an option.
As she settled, the bus jerked forward and someone stepped on her toes.
"Ah ah, oga!" she snapped.
"Sorry," came a soft voice.
She turned to see a tall, clean-shaven guy in shirt and tie, glasses on his nose, and stress in his eyes. He didn't look like he belonged in a danfo.
"No vex," he added with a small smile.
Ifeoma nodded, surprised by the calm in his voice. Most Lagos guys would've argued first.
Minutes later, on Third Mainland Bridge, the bus stuttered.
"Driver, wetin happen na?" passengers groaned.
The bus coughed again—and died.
Driver: "Na fuel finish."
Shouts erupted.
Ifeoma sighed. "This Lagos go kill person."
The guy beside her chuckled quietly. "Welcome to the jungle."
She looked at him, half smiling.
"You dey laugh? Fuel don finish, I fit lose client. You sef dey Lagos?"
"I just dey survive," he said.