An Interesting Encounter With An Unusual Taxi Driver
It was one of those days in the office: Nothing odd or unexpected – just the usual and sometimes inexplicable fatigue that sets in after a hard day’s work.
Not having the strength to drive and already in dire need of rest on a Friday, I left the office on an eventful day a few years ago and chose to commute home in a taxi rather than drive myself on a perennially busy Victoria Island road in Lagos. It proved to be a right decision. Or, maybe not
As I strolled out to the bus-stop I passed and waved to a few other workers jostling to catch a bus, taxi or any other mode of transport. Later, I successfully waved down an empty taxi after a “short” thirty minutes’ wait somewhere close to my office in Victoria Island.
The taxi driver turns out to be an old wily one… likely in his late sixties (I figured) but not looking his age. He could probably pass for someone in his early fifties. He asked me to simply call him “Oko gbogbo Omoge” (husband to all ladies) for a reason he summed up as, “for the sake of peace at home and in the diaspora.”
I would come to know why later on our eventful trip together.
Back to my story.
As soon as a I stepped into the cab after agreeing the price, I let out a long yawn and unconsciously said, ‘what a very busy day!’
As if on cue and without any invitation, ‘Oko gbogbo Omoge’ was on me as he asked the first unsolicited question in a long line of intrusive probing from an unlikely interviewer.
“Did you say you are tired sir?’ he asked.
Yes, I said, ‘and very much so,’ I added for emphasis.
Next came another question, ‘what did you do to make you tired?’ he asked in Yoruba and I replied as a matter of fact that I have just had a very long and tedious day at work so I really must be tired after a hard day’s work, shouldn’t I?’ I asked with a slightly high-pitched tone to drive home the point that I would rather be left alone.
He did not take the hint
‘Yes, it follows that you should be tired after a hard day’s work sir,’ he said, “but what work do you so-called busy executives really do in the office?’ he questioned.
Agitated, I sat up and reeled out a retinue of work that we “executives” do in the office on the regular, but he just laughed before saying:
“Executive workers really do not do anything in the office,” he opined and continued: “I mean, you rush to the office in the morning still sleepy while someone drives you in an air-conditioned car. You sit in an air-conditioned office and return to an air-conditioned home.
“You always drink tea, coffee and Bournvita in the morning (he called it ‘Bombita’ which sounded like Queen’s English coming from an Ilorin man). Then you eat launch in the afternoon, give queries to your junior colleagues to confuse them in the evening and then rush out of the office to drink all night under the pretence that you were waiting for the Lagos traffic to ease,” he said as a matter of fact.
I sat up to protest, but he wasn’t done…
“And guess what,’ he blabbed excitedly, “every Monday morning you rush back to the office ostensibly to start off the week on a hard-working note but we taxi drivers know why you must report so early on a Monday.’
“And why?” I asked.
‘Of course, you have to resume early on Monday morning to return or cover up the money you stole from petty cash for your Friday jamboree!”
General laughter!
Still suppressing my laughter, I looked at him (again) and said defensively that he was far from the truth. He laughed and told me pointedly that it is either I don’t know what happens around my office or that I am just lying to entertain myself. Then he asked me to salvage myself by telling him what I do in my office to earn the big salary I took home every month!
I gave him a long list of my responsibilities as a PR practitioner to make me feel good with myself (I must confess) but he was not convinced. He simply asked me to tell him what I do mostly on daily basis using my Friday as a case in point.
‘Crisis management!’ I responded, hoping that he would stop pestering me at this point since I know that the average Ilorin, Igbira or ibadan man does not like big English when on duty (!), but he wouldn’t let me be.
“And what is ‘crying management?’” he asked – ‘Crisis management’ you mean, I interjected and corrected him simultaneously.
He asked me to just go straight to the point if I was really sure of myself saying in Yoruba, “Abosi lo fe se yen” (you just want to gossip). So, I explained crisis management to him from a layman’s perspective with an extra treatise on stakeholder communication/management etc just to get him off my back.
He was not impressed at all. He said crisis management is the easiest job in the world and taxi drivers like himself are the most adept at it.
Now flustered, I asked for a justification of his statement that taxi drivers are the best crisis managers around.
It was a big mistake!
He stared at me with an effusive smile on his face before saying with uncommon swag, “We, taxi drivers do all the crisis management in the world and we are the hardest workers in this regard,” he volunteered.
“For instance, every day of my life I carry and manage trouble! For instance I pick a woman from her husband’s house for the airport – supposedly for a business flight to God knows where – and I drive her straight for a dalliance with her boyfriend.
“I charge the husband double the fare, share the extra percentage with the wife, collect some payment from the boyfriend, get an extra gift from the wife and I still get occasional tips from the husband for keeping an eye on his wife. I do this all the time and I have earned the confidence of all. This is crying (crisis) management my friend!
“Secondly,” he said, now fully in the mood and feeling like he just won a lottery, “I have a good working relation with most of the commercial sex workers, their patrons, the men in black and other characters in-between and I manage the relationship without revealing anybody’s identify.
“On top of it,” he continued, “we still get paid extra for our ability to ‘manage’ every situation. This is ‘crying management’ because no one cries at the end of the day!” he said before adding, “Ignorance is bliss!”.
I ignored the fact that his disingenuous understanding of my concept was way off the mark but I let him be, sensing that he would not stop until he was exhausted.
I was right, he continued.
“We even have relationship with those other characters who move at night including witches and wizards and we keep our secrets, secret – what you don’t know, does not kill you, abi’” he said, before concluding by saying: ‘Crying management’ ni yen arakunrin!” (That is crisis management gentleman).
He then paused and glanced in my direction perhaps waiting for confirmation.
My facial expression was blank but he was unperturbed. He ignored me for the umpteenth time and continued excitedly:
“And let me tell you something else you don’t know…for all our troubles, we still perform all our matrimonial duties at home.
He again paused and looked at me with suppressed laughter in his eyes as he asked: “By the way, how many children do you have Mr. hard working executive?
I have three daughters and another child is on the way; and I am believing God it will be a big boy,” I offered meekly.
‘”Sho tan?’” he interjected – for all the big salary you collect you have only three girls and no bobo, right?
It wasn’t funny so I retorted as a matter of fact that I am a real man; a true father and one that believes in the girl child. I also told him that I don’t believe that boys are in any was superior to girls…
He just interrupted me by saying: “Okobo kii bi mo s’ itosi” (I am afraid I won’t explain this here) before providing more insights for my benefit.
“I have eight children- six boys and only two girls,” he said this with a deliberate macho smirk on his face before he continued, “and I still go home to satisfy my three wives even after driving under the humid Sun all day and hobnobbing with strange bedfellows all night.
“I use my God-given ability to keep my three wives happy and I still manage to pay the school fees of all my children with my taxi business. This is ‘crying management!
“And what about you and your other executives, what do you do in the name of crying management or crisis management, abi kilo pe (what did you call it)?”
I refused to correct him this time around since he was now going overboard. As a detour I changed the subject and told him how I succeeded in calming down an aggrieved customer and even extracted a one-year subscription from the same person earlier in the office because of my persuasive power.
“This customer came to the office to dump his decoder in our face because he was really dissatisfied with our service,” I emphasised.
“I ro ni” (it’s a lie) he interjected. “If the subscriber wanted to dump your decoder, he needn’t waste time and money coming to your office to do it, he will simply smash the darn thing at home, opari!”
I just stared at him…
“My friend,” he continued in a measured tone, “the man came to your office for special attention which you gave to him and nothing more. It was not a crisis management thing,” he again lectured me.
At this point, brow beaten, I kept quiet since I had more than met my match in a man who was too experienced for his own good. No wonder he calls himself ‘Oko gbogbo Omoge!’
In order to end the conversation therefore, I pretended to sleep off and lo and behold, sleep got the better of me!
Suddenly, over an hour later, a tap on my shoulders woke me up.
“Where is your house? We are in …” he asked me.
Still drowsy and tired, I looked out of the window to get my bearing and I pointed in the direction of my street.
A few minutes after, he stopped in front of my home and I alighted and handed over his fare.
On counting the money, he shook his head vigorously and said to me: “Uncle (I a m now an Uncle over money matters!) my fare is N2,000 (Two thousand Naira) and not wan-five (N1,500)”.
“This is the amount we agreed to,” I protested. But he did not budge and simply said. “Yes, I know, but you slept off like a baby less than half way into the trip.
I was confused.
“But for my vigilance, the boys on Apongbon bridge could have stolen your laptop or phones etc,” he explained.
“I also settled those “dark” people on two occasions to stop them from waking you up for routine stop-and-search which would have cost you money.
“I did all this for your sake in the name of Crisis management. You mean you can’t appreciate even your own profession!”
Then I laughed… a long laughter. I really laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing as I handed him an additional note for his crisis management skills as he laughed and waved bye to me.
Suddenly, he paused, motioned me to get closer before he asked if he has my blessing to arrange some local concoctions that will gift me more boys as against girls in future!
I said he shouldn’t bother.
He motioned to me again to come even closer just when I thought it was all over and said:
“The way things are going for you, I suspect your house will soon become the beehive of many boys.
I said amen.
But he threw me a bomb shell:
“Your house will soon become ‘Ilu Obirin’ (girls’ community) where boys from all parts of the country will daily visit in search of girlfriend which you may end up with if you refuse to take the wise counsel of adults like me!
I stood there speechless as he zoomed off laughing at me and leaving me in no doubt that Taxi Drivers really must have some skills in starting and managing all kind of troubles. My own home, Ilu Obinrin? Holy Ghost fire, I reject it!
And, One Last Thing: This is perhaps my first attempt at making you laugh on a Friday. If you would like me to tell you more stories like this from my personal and non-personal experience please let me know and I will consider your request. My name is Olusegun Fayose and you will find me at: www.rovingnaija.com Please visit our website regularly to encourage our news business to grow and remember to invite your friends. You can also leave us a comment or two to make us serve you better.
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