Last week, I entered a Danfo on my way back home. Then somewhere around Obalende, a man boarded with a nylon bag of meat. Raw meat. He dropped it at the back of the bus and came inside to sit down. 

If you know Danfo, you know the seats near the door. Wind dey there. That wind can humble anything. Even a stubborn housefly is not supposed to survive that breeze. But Lagos will always shock you. A fly followed this man inside and refused to leave. It clung to him like destiny.

The smell came next. It arrived fully formed. Heavy. Rude. People shifted. People cleared their throats. The bus went quiet in that Lagos way where everyone is suffering together but pretending not to notice.

Then the man sat beside me.

I froze. My brain started calculating scenarios. What if I was going for an interview? What if this was a first date? What if I was about to meet someone who still believes I have my life together? There is no perfume on this earth that can negotiate with that kind of body odour. Call it musuf, lusuf, latava, cassava. Once the smell speaks, every other thing keeps quiet.

That was the moment it became clear to me. I don’t want a car for aesthetics. I want peace. I want control over my space. I want to arrive somewhere without carrying Lagos inside my clothes.

So God, if you are taking requests for 2026, please add this one to the list. Give me a car. I’m not asking for much.