Danfo Drivers can test your Faith

Dear God,

Let me ask You a question, and please, Dad, answer honestly, no divine side-eye. Have You ever been so annoyed… so thoroughly provoked… that You just lost it?

Yes. You have. What exactly happened in Sodom and Gomorrah? And that small matter of Noah’s Flood, was that not a full-system reset? Let’s not even mention Lot’s wife who merely turned to look back and became a souvenir of salt. So please, let us not pretend that anger is a foreign language in this our divine family.

Dad, don’t roll your eyes like that. Where exactly did you think we inherited our temperament from? Nature vs. nurture? Kindly. If anger were genetics, heaven would need anger management classes. Like Father, like…….. So, Daddy… when we, your children, occasionally misbehave under pressure, let’s not pretend the apple fell far from the tree……okay, I’ll behave.

I’m writing today to confess a very Lagos-specific temptation I had with danfo drivers.

My driver, who clearly believes punctuality is a suggestion, decided that on this particular morning (the morning of my very important meeting) he would arrive late. Not five minutes late. Not even ten. The kind of late that makes you question your entire support system. I waited at the junction like a well-brought-up child of God. Nothing. No driver. No call. Not even a “Madam, I am on my way,” lie he used to tell.

So, I sighed, adjusted my dignity, and told myself, “You are a strong independent woman. You have two hands, two eyes, and a driver’s license. Go forth. But, in Lagos, that bravery is the adult version of volunteering for gladiator combat.

The traffic greeted me like an unsolved riddle. Everyone was angry, no one was moving, and horns were auditioning for a Grammy. I stayed in my lane, inhaling patience, exhaling grace. But it didn’t last for long, not when two danfo drivers decided to mean you.

They approached like coordinated demons. One from the left, one from the right, squeezing me like sardine between bad breads. One was blasting his horn as if the sound alone could bend iron. I felt harassed. Emotionally and spiritually.

Then the chaos escalated. The danfo on my left jumped right in front of me as the traffic eased a bit, no signal, no apology, just audacity. I swerved to survive, and in that same second, the danfo on my right kissed my side mirror and bent it in like it owed him money.

And then, because insult loves timing, they began to curse me out.

“Ẹ jọ̀ọ́, ẹ wọlé obinri!” (Please, woman, move inside).

“Sọ fún ọkọ yín kí ó fún yín ní awakọ́.” (Tell your husband to get you a driver).

“Ẹ sì yọ kúrò lórí opópónà.” (Leave the road!)

Ah. Something ancient stood up inside me. Something feral. Normally, I would slow down, breathe, and let foolishness pass. But that day, foolishness knocked on my door and I answered with confidence. You see, Dad, they didn’t just block me, they disrespected me. And I was already emotionally underfed. So, I blocked the danfo on my right. Clean manoeuvre. Sharp. He didn’t see it coming.

Then I swerved left to contain the other one. He panicked and veered, straight into a brand-new Mercedes Benz. The sound of the crash alone needed subtitles. The Mercedes driver parked, jumped out, dragged the danfo driver down, and gave him a slap that echoed into accountability. I should have felt bad. I did not.

Instead, I doubled down. I drove in front of the remaining danfo, blocked him fully, and stopped. We were now in a relationship, and I was the toxic one. I ranted. He swore. He tried to manoeuvre. I followed him every time like a shadow with purpose. The passengers were shocked, not offended, just impressed at my driving skills.

The conductor laughed and hailed me like I was a Nollywood legend.

“Ẹ̀yin, obìnrin yìí mọ̀ wakọ́ dáadáa ooo! (This woman can drive oh!)

“Ẹ̀ dà á sílẹ̀ jọ̀ọ́. Kì í ṣe ẹni kékeré—oga madam ni.” (Leave her alone, she’s not a small woman. Na Big madam).

“Tálọ́ mọ̀ bóyá ọkọ rẹ̀ jẹ́ army?” (Who knows? Her husband might be army!)

“Madam, ṣé Formula One ni ẹ ti máa wakọ́ rí ni?” (Madam, have you driven Formula One before?)

I tell you, Dad, peer validation is dangerous. My head was swollen up. The driver, embarrassed that passengers were laughing at him, and apparently was possessed by the same demon that possessed me, refused to let it go. We danced this madness for almost a mile.

Then, in his desperation to overtake me from the left, he hit a curb and got stuck. As I passed him, he raised both hands and gave me waka. The double-handed kind. Full commitment. I raised my own hand. I spread it. Prepared the curse. And then, paused.

A strong voice rose inside me, calm, authoritative, and familiar, whispered:

Why? Who are you?

My hand froze mid-air. Slowly, gingerly, I lowered it. I couldn’t finish the insult. Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because I suddenly remembered myself. So instead, I waved and I blew him a kiss.

The bus erupted with cheers. Humans love redemption, wallahi. As I drove away, adrenaline cooling, conscience warming, I reflected. What exactly was I proving?

What if I had crashed while auditioning for insanity’s medals? At what point did justice become ego?

I thought about that moment I raised my hand to curse and dropped it again, and joy filled me. Not because I won, but because I stopped before losing myself completely.

There’s a Japanese proverb that says:

“If you get on the wrong train, get off at the nearest station. The longer you stay, the more expensive the return trip.” Meaning: once you realize you’re wrong, exit. Immediately. Pride is a very costly ticket. It’s better to be halfway right than fully wrong.

So, Dad, yes, I indulged in foolishness. Yes, I accepted the bait for road rage.

But also, please understand, I met the danfo drivers on an empty stomach and a wounded spirit and couldn’t. Still, wrong is wrong. I’m sorry.

The lesson is noted. No more road duels. No more proving points in traffic. In fact, no more proving points to anyone, win and go. It’s okay.

This is your daughter, Lord, choosing grace, though sometimes late, but sincerely and checking in.