Third Mainland Bridge

A quick pit stop—

Bang!

My heart skips a beat.

My phone drops.

“Jesus!” I hear from the back.

My quads tighten, my hands stiffen, my head’s raised—What’s happening?

“Jesus!” I echo reflexively.

It’s black. It’s pitch black.

I only hear the sound of cars whizzing by, I can’t see shit. I turn back trying to make sense of it all—nothing useful.

I turn forward.

It’s the bonnet.

It’s the fucking car bonnet! It slammed into the windscreen, cracked glass spreading like thin roots across the darkened screen. The car’s still moving fast, the glass threatening to cave in from the pressure of the bonnet that’s pressing against it.

The car sways as the driver tries to get his bearings, slowing down but not so much that we get slammed from behind, but just enough that we don’t ram into anything in front.

My blood runs cold. Feet stiffen—hyper–sensitive like a phantom limb. My mind is focused but blank. Head pressed against the headrest as I stare into the darkness, waiting—

So this is happening?

Shit.

This is happening!

“Park! Park! Park!” I start shouting, snapping out of it. “Park for the side!” I yell at the driver.

The car slowly wobbles to the side of the bridge and eventually comes to a stop.

No hits. No cuts. No blood.

We’re safe.

But then came the voices.

A mix of Pidgin and Yoruba coming from behind, getting louder, getting closer.

“Oga sorry, sorry, sorry. No vex. I just service the car niam make I no close the bonnet well. Sorry, no vex.” The driver’s voice edging with pain and dread, as he apologizes.

Yeah. I’m getting another Uber.

I try to get out of the car, get a sense of where we are, but the driver grabs the door and shuts it quickly. “Oga, abeg stay inside.” The driver pleads.

Sweat’s pouring down my face—It’s humid, it’s hot. My irritation’s quickly rising.

Then they arrive—the voices.

A group of young boys—maybe men—thin, in scrappy clothes, surround our car. One of them tries to get my attention.

I ignore him.

He moves on, joining the others on the driver’s side. They go back and forth in Yoruba with the driver—negotiating something.

“What’s happening?” I ask, tempering my frustration.

“Them go help us with rope, so the bonnet no go commot again.” The driver replies.

Despite my frustration, I stay calm.

“You think say we dey play?” One of the boys snaps.

“Ejor! Ejor! Ejor!”, the driver pleads, frantically turning his head from side to side, as one of them runs back to my window.

“Bros. You go drop something for boys.”

I ignore him.

“Bros! You gas drop something for boys.” He says more firmly, eyes fixed on me.

“Talk to person wey you dey talk to.” I say, pointing back at the driver.

“Ejor! Ejor!” The driver continues to plead.

Before we realize, his hands stretch past my window and snatches the car keys.

“Oya now! Dey go! You think say we dey play abi?”

Fuck.

My annoyance slowly edges towards concern. It’s getting dark, and we’re trapped here.

“Oya bros, shake body.”

“I no get any money.”

Voices rise. Yoruba fills the air. I understand nothing, but the tone is clear.

Then one of them slips his hand in his pants, drawing our attention to a bulge.

I need no translation for that.

So I behave.

“Ejor! Ejor! Oya come, Oya come, come make we talk,” the driver says.

The boys all move to his side of the car.

The driver whips out his phone, desperately tapping away at the screen. They provide account details and he swiftly makes a transfer. “Oya, I don transfer. Gimme key.”

They ignore him.

They move back to my side of the car. “Oya bros, you sef, drop something.”

“I no get any money!” I snap.

Then I hear a sigh.

The boys rush to the back of the car, a hand shoots through the side of the window.

The door jerks, it’s almost ajar—

Then it’s caught quickly and slammed shut.

Only then does fear slip through, hitting me all at once—

Shit.

It’s not just me here.

Bonus

• Song of the day - Follow Follow by Falz or Silver Tongue by Jacob Banks.