Having spent almost a year in Lagos, in a job that caused me to traverse the metropolis, I thought I had seen it all.
Until I boarded, one fateful Monday evening, the 50-seater National Unity Transport bus that I usually favour for the Obalende-Oshodi route.
As soon as the heavily laden bus clambered atop the third mainland bridge, and rumbled along at less than 10 miles per hour in the typical Monday night traffic, I whipped out my copy of NEXT and proceeded to console myself.
The drama started when the big fellow sitting next to me leaned over, rudely closed my paper, and said, “Let us pray.”
As he heaved himself to his feet, and addressed fellow passengers with the familiar - “Brothers and Sisters,” I resigned myself to having to endure an hour, or so, of preaching that I wasn’t exactly in the mood for.
A couple of minutes later, my resignation turned to outraged shock when another fellow stood up and promptly proceeded to bellow his own version of the ‘word of God.’ Two preachers in one bus!
This proved a little too much for the usually stoic commuters, and protests spewed forth. The driver, obviously incensed with the din, turned up the radio volume; and Dbanj entered the fray with ‘Gbono feli feli.’ A police officer standing near the open doors of the bus leaned farther out, as if preferring the cacophony of horns that characterize Lagos traffic.
Neither of them willing to stand down for the other, the two ‘pastors’ preached on, undeterred by the palpable rage of their audience. I dare say the good Lord would not have approved of the manner in which the supposed men of God went about the business of preaching His word.
As I climbed into bed two hours later, I couldn’t help marvel at how Lagos always manages to get on the nerves of even its most jaded citizens.