Janice had woken up that morning all prepared for her very first test at the University of Lagos. It was ENG 113, a compulsory course that most people said was easy, but still nerve-wracking for a fresher trying to find her footing.
She had planned to take a keke from Bariga to the main gate and hop on a campus shuttle. But as she was about to leave the house, she remembered something. Her pen. A black pen sanctified and consecrated for the test. She rummaged through her desk drawer, the school bag she hung on the wall, and even under her bed, but her trusted pen was nowhere to be found.
"Not today," she muttered, only to sigh in relief moments later when she discovered the pen tucked safely in the pocket of the jacket she had on.
She rushed out of her off-campus apartment, heart thudding.
As Janice flagged down a keke, she tried to calm herself. “One hour is plenty,” she whispered as she glanced at her wrist watch. The keke zoomed down the road, dodging potholes until it suddenly screeched to a halt.
Horns blared in chaotic rhythm, and traffic choked the road like cold pap. The sun was already glaring down like it had a fight with Lagos.
Ahead, two keke drivers had blocked the road.
“I say you be fool! Big fool, onyoshi!” one of the two keke drivers shouted, his shirt half-buttoned.
People craned their necks ahead trying to watch the drama that is about to start. Janice too was not left out. She stretched her neck like that of a giraffe.
“Na im suppose turn left. Ode oshi!” the other keke man, a short studded man, barked.
“And your papa no even learn sense to drive common Keke!” the other snapped back, stepping down from his keke like Jackie Chan.
“Ye ye ye, my papa, you call my papa. Madman! Oya repeat am! Make thunder fire you there!”
The two drivers were now chest to chest.
“Wetin you go do, ehn?”, the other driver said, clutching the shirt of the other.
Janice sat frozen in her keke, eyes darting between her watch and the chaos.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispered, gripping her pen like it could stop time.
She had just 35 minutes left.
“Oga driver, abeg leave fight. Dis girl dey go class!” a woman seated inside the keke pointed at Janice.
The keke man, in anger, left the other driver and came inside the keke. He muttered something that sounded like a cross between a curse and a proverb, kicked his keke into gear, and sped off like he had just been beaten by the gods.
Janice exhaled. But her shoulders remained stiff, her breath shallow. 30 minutes to go.
When they got to UNILAG gate, Janice shoved money into the driver’s hand, mumbled “thank you,” and dashed out.
She reached the shuttle park. The queue looked like a line to heaven.
The sun was hotter now, unbothered and brutal, but trekking was the only option.
And the trek she did.
It got to a point where she began to run like her GP depended on it.
Finally, she climbed the Faculty of Arts stairs, two at a time, heart in her throat, and reached Room 402.
“How far, Janice,” a friend called out to her.
“Have you started the test?” Janice said anxiously.
“Test has been postponed ooo. You didn't check the group chat?” the guy said.
“Ehn!” Janice exclaimed.
“Course rep sent the message eight or ten minutes ago,” the guy responded.
She let her head fall back gently against the wall. A part of her wanted to cry, not out of sadness, but from sheer emotional whiplash. Despite the madness of Lagos, she didn’t give up and turned back. She had faced fear, confusion, and the hot sun.
With a hand on her forehead, she whispered, “What an unbelievable day!”
