THE DAY A DANFO DRIVER SURPRISED ME
On my way to Ojota from Oshodi in a yellow bus—aka Danfo—I found myself inside one of the most unusual commercial buses I’ve ever boarded in Lagos.
From the moment the conductor waved at me to join, something about the whole setup felt... different.
For starters, the conductor didn’t have the usual "Oojota aa!" voice that scratched your ears. No sweaty armpit, no angry face, no one-leg-outside-the-door madness. He wore a pair of clean white canvas, and his T-shirt had a bold drawing of Barack Obama with the iconic slogan: “Yes We Can.”
That was the first sign that I had entered a Danfo deluxe.
The interior of the bus was shockingly neat. The seats were padded and clean—no foam peeking out, no torn leather, no random sachet water rolling underfoot.
I sat directly behind the driver since the front seats were already occupied. But by the time we reached Oshodi Bridge, the two passengers in front alighted. Like a true Lagosian, I didn’t waste time—I quickly came down and hopped into the front seat.
That was when the real surprise began.
Instead of blasting Fuji, loud Afrobeat, or some ranting preacher from a scratchy CD, the driver was listening to Earl Nightingale. I kid you not—Earl Nightingale, the motivational legend.
I blinked twice. Was I dreaming?
“This is going to be a good day,” I whispered to myself, smiling.
I looked at the driver. He seemed deep in thought as Earl’s calm, baritone voice poured wisdom into the air like incense.
I couldn’t resist starting a conversation.
Me: Oga, you’re listening to Earl Nightingale?
Driver: Yes, please.
Yes please? From a Danfo driver? I nearly pinched myself.
Me: You like Earl?
Driver: Yes. He’s one of my favourites. I listen to him until around 10 a.m. every day before changing the CD.
I was floored. I hadn’t even gotten to Ojota, and this young man had already made my day.
So I pushed further.
Me: So... why Danfo? I mean, with the way you talk, you sound like someone who should be doing something else.
He chuckled, a rich, hearty laugh that filled the bus.
Driver: There’s nothing much to say—it’s the state of the nation.
Me: Are you enjoying it, though?
Driver: Yes. I’m having fun.
Me: Really?
Driver: You look shocked. Why?
Me: Honestly, I’m just wondering what exactly there is to enjoy in this kind of job—the traffic, crazy passengers, bad roads...
Driver: Well, every job has its downsides. These are ours. The real challenge is finding satisfaction and maybe small profit in whatever you do.
That reply shut me up for a few seconds.
The conductor kept interrupting our flow—reminding the driver of bus stops and passengers asking for change. But the driver didn’t miss a beat.
In between those disruptions, he continued.
Driver: Anyway, it’s a long story. But to cut it short, this wasn’t the original plan. When no job was coming, I decided to take the bull by the horns. This is the bull... and I think I’m manning the horns quite comfortably.
Me: What did you study?
Driver: Education.
Me: You didn’t want to teach?
Driver: I did. In fact, I taught for two years in a private primary school.
Me: So why did you quit?
Driver: The take-home pay wasn’t taking me home.
I burst into laughter. The way he said it, like someone who’d rehearsed the line for years.
Me: So with all the wahala of Lagos, you still enjoy driving Danfo?
Driver: Yes now. Like I said, every business has its madness. This one is mine—and I’m managing it well.
Then he added, almost casually, “I have two other buses. And a football viewing centre in my area.”
That one nearly made me choke on my own spit.
He told me the conductor with him was his younger brother who joins him when he’s free.
“When he’s not around, I use other boys. But I insist they dress decently and never insult passengers. Most of them live in my area, so word spreads fast. If you mess up, you’re gone.”
By the time we got to Ojota, I was quietly reflecting on the encounter.
A Danfo driver with a motivational playlist, a side business, clean buses, and strong personal values?
In a city where people are doing anything to survive, this man was doing something rare—thriving with dignity.
As I dropped from the bus, he smiled and said, “Have a great day.”
I smiled back. “You too.”
Because he already had one. And somehow, so did I.