FROM DANFO TO MANSION

Chapter 1: Oshodi - First Night Under The Bridge

My name is Tunde. I am 22 years old. I am from Ogun State, but my story started in Lagos.

My mother woke me by 4am that day. She put my clothes inside one small Ghana-must-go bag. She put ₦5,000 inside my sock and said, "Tunde, no forget prayer. Lagos big, but God bigger."

My uncle had called three weeks before. "Tunde, come to Lagos. There's work for you in my shop at Alaba. Just come."

I believed him.

I entered night bus from Ijebu-Ode. The bus smelled of sweat and gala. When we reached Ojota by 6pm, Lagos swallowed me. Noise everywhere. Danfo shouting. Agbero shouting. Okada everywhere like mosquitoes.

I called my uncle. His number was switched off. I called again. A woman picked.

"Who be this?" she asked.

"Na Tunde, uncle Bayo nephew. I don reach Lagos."

She hissed. "Your uncle travel go village since yesterday. E no dey. You for call before you come now."

My heart cut.

"What I go do ma? I no know anywhere for Lagos."

"Find somewhere sleep till he come back. We no get space." She cut the phone.

That was it.

I stood at Ojota with my bag. ₦5,000 in my sock. Phone with 12% battery. Nowhere to go.

An old conductor looked at me. "Omo boy, you lost?"

I nodded. He pointed. "If you no get where to sleep, go under Oshodi bridge. Many boys dey there. But shine your eye, dem fit thief your bag."

I trekked from Ojota to Oshodi. My slippers nearly cut. When I reached under the bridge, I saw real Lagos. Boys sleeping on carton. Boys smoking. Boys counting dirty money. One woman frying akara with gutter water beside her.

I found one corner, put my Ghana-must-go as pillow. I could not sleep. My body was doing me somehow, but my mind was louder.

Mosquitoes bit me like they had meeting. Police torch flashed at 2am. "Who you be? Get up!" They searched my bag, saw nothing, left.

I cried that night. No lie. I cried like small pikin. I asked God, "Na this be Lagos?"

By 5am, Lagos woke up before humans. Danfos started honking. "OSHODI! OSHODI! OSHODI! Enter with your change o!"

A man with big belly and dirty singlet pulled me. "You tall, you get energy. You fit do conductor? I go pay you ₦3k daily."

Three thousand? For me wey get degree in Ogun State? But my stomach was making noise. I had not eaten since yesterday morning.

I shouted, "Oshodi! Oshodi! Enter with your change!"

My first day as danfo conductor. My voice cracked. Passengers insulted me. One agbero slapped my head because I no give him complete ticket money.

By 8pm, my legs were shaking. My shirt was soaked. Oga counted money and gave me ₦2,500. He said, "You no sabi work, I comot ₦500."

I collected it with two hands. It was my first Lagos money.

I used ₦400 to buy bread and Coca-Cola. I sat under the same bridge and ate like king.

That night, I brought out my small notebook. I wrote:

"Day 1 in Lagos: Slept under bridge. Became conductor. Made ₦2,500. I go make am."

As I was writing, a girl's voice said behind me, "You dey write love letter?"

I turned. She was standing with POS machine. Small girl, fair, with big eye.

"No, na my diary," I said.

She laughed. "For this Oshodi? You be writer? My name na Kemi. I dey do POS for that side."

I told her my name. She looked at my Ghana-must-go and said something I will never forget.

"You no go stay under bridge tey. I see am for your eye. You go blow for this Lagos."

Nobody had ever told me that in Lagos.

That night, I slept a little better. Not because mosquitoes left, but because one person believed I would not die under that bridge.

Chapter 2: Enter With Your Change - Life As A Danfo Conductor

My second day in Lagos, I woke up before the sun.

Under Oshodi bridge, nobody uses alarm. The danfo horns are the alarm. The agbero shouting "Oya enter!" is the alarm. By 4:30am, everywhere don scatter.

I folded my carton, hid my Ghana-must-go inside one kiosk that Kemi said would be safe. She told the kiosk woman, "Mama, na my brother, make e keep bag."

My oga's name was Baba Sadiq. He had three danfos. His belly was so big, his singlet could not cover it. He had only three teeth in front, but his voice could wake dead body.

"Tunde! Where you dey? Oya carry this motor comot! We get target today - ₦25k! If money no complete, you no go sleep for park!"

That was how my conductor career started fully.

My job was simple but hard:

1. Shout destination until my throat tear.

2. Drag passengers by hand inside bus.

3. Collect money while bus is moving at 100km/h inside Lagos traffic.

4. Fight with agbero who collect ₦500 for every trip.

5. Give oga his complete money, or collect slap.

I shouted: "OSHODI! OSHODI! OSHODI! Ikeja! Ikeja along! Enter with your change o! No change no enter!"

Lagos people no get patience. One woman with big bag shouted at me, "You dey drag me like goat? You think I be your mate?"

One big guy in suit entered, pressed his phone, and said "Conductor, you dey smell. Use perfume next time."

I swallowed insult like garri.

The worst part was agbero. At every bus stop, they block danfo. "Owo load! Owo load!" You must pay. If you no pay, they go break your mirror or remove your wiper. Baba Sadiq told me, "If you argue with them, na you go pay the money from your salary."

One day, I made mistake. One passenger gave me ₦1,000 for ₦300 fare. I no get change. I told him "Oga I go give you later." He forgot? No. When he wanted to drop at Ikeja, he shouted "Thief! Thief! This conductor want thief my ₦700!"

People gathered. They nearly beat me. I had to bring out my own ₦700 from my pocket. I worked whole day that day for nothing.

Evening, we counted money. Baba Sadiq looked at me.

"₦18k? Where is remaining ₦7k?"

"Oga agbero collect, and fuel-"

He gave me hot slap. My ear ring.

"You dey tell me story? Bring my money!"

I knelt down. Other conductors laughed.

Kemi saw me that night. My eyes red.

"You cry?" she asked, giving me pure water.

"No. Dust enter my eye."

She sat beside me on the carton. She was counting her POS money.

"Tunde, how long you wan do conductor work? You get SSCE Abi? You no fit do am forever."

"I know. But I no get choice. I need to survive."

She brought out her phone. Showed me TikTok.

"See this boy wey dey repair phone for Computer Village. He dey make video, people dey come. You sabi anything?"

I said, "I sabi small phone repair. I learn am for Ijebu small."

Her eye shine.

"Then why you dey waste your voice shouting Oshodi? Tomorrow follow me, I know one man for Ikeja."

That night, for the first time, I did not write "I go make am" in my notebook. I wrote "Tomorrow, I go comot for under bridge."

I did not know that tomorrow, Baba Sadiq would accuse me of stealing his bus money and chase me with cutlass.

Chapter 3: Pure Water In Go-Slow - ₦50 Profit

I did not become ex-conductor by my own will. Baba Sadiq fired me.

It happened on my fourth day.

That morning, his danfo tyre punctured at Anthony. We waited 2 hours for vulcanizer. No trip, no money. When we finally reached Oshodi, target was ₦25k but we only made ₦14k.

Baba Sadiq was already angry because his wife called that his son sick. He looked for who to pour anger on. I was the smallest person there.

"Where is my money?" he shouted.

"Oga na ₦14k we make. Tyre spoil-"

"THIEF! You don thief my money!"

Before I could talk, he lifted his hand and slapped me. Then he pushed me. My head hit the danfo door.

"Oga I no thief!" I shouted, blood coming from my lip.

He carried cutlass from inside bus. "Comot for here! Thief! No come near my park again!"

All other conductors watched. Nobody talked. In Oshodi, if oga vex, you go.

I left. With torn singlet, swollen lip, and ₦0 for that day.

I sat under bridge. Kemi came with her POS stool.

"Jesus! Who beat you?"

"Baba Sadiq."

She hissed. "That man na animal. Everybody know am."

I wanted to cry again but I was tired of crying. Kemi said, "Make I tell you, no dey do conductor again. Come follow me sell pure water for traffic. For that Third Mainland go-slow, you fit make ₦3k daily if you get leg."

So I became pure water boy.

Kemi introduced me to Mama Nkechi, the woman who sells pure water bags. One bag has 20 sachets. She sells bag for ₦300. If you sell one sachet for ₦50, you make ₦1,000 per bag. Profit ₦700.

But theory is different from practical.

First day in traffic, I carried cold pure water on my head. Sun was firing me like oven. Cars locked. Go-slow from Oshodi to Anthony. I was shouting:

"PURE WATER! COLD PURE WATER! BUY YOUR COLD PURE WATER!"

Nobody looked. Lagos people inside AC car no want pure water. They want Gala and La Casera.

I trekked 6 hours. My legs cut. My head pained. I sold only 3 bags. Profit ₦2,100. But Mama Nkechi removed ₦300 for ice block. So I left with ₦1,800.

Second day was worse. LASTMA pursued hawkers. I ran with water on my head. One bag burst, water poured on my body. People laughed.

By third day, I learned tricks. You don't shout pure water. You knock window gently and show sad face. You target danfo passengers, not private cars. Danfo people are thirsty and have no AC.

I started making ₦2,500 daily. Small money, but no oga to slap me.

One afternoon, go-slow hold for 3 hours at Ikeja. I was tired, sitting on road median, drinking one sachet myself. A man inside clean Toyota Corolla wound down.

"Boy, how much you sell per bag?"

I said "₦300 for bag, sir."

He said "How many bags you get?"

"Three bags remain."

"Give me all. And how much be your profit for one bag?"

I was confused. "₦700 sir."

He counted ₦5,000 and gave me. "Keep change. You get sense for eye. You no go sell pure water forever. You sabi repair phone?"

I said "Small small sir."

He gave me card. "My name is Chuks. I have shop at Computer Village. Come tomorrow. I go test you."

I held that card like gold. Cardboard paper, but it smelled like destiny.

That night I ran to Kemi. "Kemi! Kemi! Someone give me job for Computer Village!"

She jumped. "I tell you! I tell you your star dey shine!"

We bought two plates of Indomie and one Coke to celebrate. That night, under Oshodi bridge, with ₦5,000 in my sock and pure water stain on my shirt, I felt like Dangote.

Tomorrow I go to Computer Village. I did not know that tomorrow, Mama Nkechi would say I owe her ₦9,000 for pure water I did not sell.

Chapter 4: Kemi - The POS Girl Who Believed In Me

Everybody in Oshodi knew Kemi.

Not because she fine — though she fine — but because she be the only POS girl wey no dey shout on customer. Other POS girls, if network fail, they go shout "Oga you sure you transfer? Bring your phone make I see!" Kemi go just smile and say "No worry, e go enter."

She was 21. She came from Ibadan two years before me. She told me her story one night when rain fell and we could not sleep under bridge.

"My papa die when I be 16. My mama sell amala. I no gree go marry one old man for our area wey get money. So I run come Lagos. I sleep for this same bridge for 8 months before I get POS work."

That was why she understood me.

After pure water, I went to see Mama Nkechi that evening to pay for my last 3 bags.

"Mama, na 3 bags I collect morning."

She hissed. "Na lie! You collect 6 bags!"

"Ah Mama no be 3? You count am for me!"

She started shouting, calling other market women. "This boy don thief my pure water! Thief! Thief!"

I knew her game. It was normal for Oshodi. They add extra bags so you go owe them and you go continue working for them.

I had ₦5,000 Chuks gave me inside my sock. She said I owe ₦9,000. If I pay, I go remain with nothing to go Computer Village tomorrow.

Kemi came and heard noise.

"Mama Nkechi, how many bags you give am? I dey here when you give am, na 3 bags!"

Mama Nkechi looked at Kemi. "Na you be his mother?"

Kemi brought out her own money — her POS profit — and counted ₦3,000.

"Take. Na the only one I get. Leave am. He no go sell pure water again."

Mama Nkechi collected and hissed comot.

I looked at Kemi. I no get word.

"Kemi, why you pay for me?"

She shrugged. "Because one day, when you blow, you go remember say one POS girl help you for Oshodi."

That night, rain fell heavy. Under bridge, water entered. We shifted to Kemi's small kiosk — just wood and umbrella. We sat shoulder to shoulder, listening to rain hitting zinc.

"Tunde," she said, "why you no get girlfriend?"

I laughed. "Girlfriend? Person wey dey sleep under bridge wan get girlfriend? I never chop belle full."

"What if... what if person like you?"

I looked at her. Her eye was watery. Not from rain.

"Kemi, if I make am for Lagos, first person I go help na you. I swear."

She smiled. "No be help I want."

We did not kiss. We did not do anything. We just sat there till rain stopped. But something entered my chest that night.

Next morning, I woke up, ironed my only good shirt with Kemi's small iron, and carried Chuks card to Computer Village.

I told Kemi, "Pray for me."

She touched my hand. "You go get the job. I know."

I entered bus to Ikeja. My heart beating like drum. I did not know that Chuks shop was actually just one small table with no customers, and the test he wanted to give me would make me lose Kemi's trust.

Chapter 5: Alaba Hustle - Loading Cement For ₦2,000 Daily

Computer Village broke my heart.

I entered Ikeja with hope like balloon. I was wearing my best shirt — the one with only one missing button. I polished my slippers with pure water.

Chuks shop was at No. 23, I.T. Plaza. I imagined big glass shop, AC, many phones. When I reached there, I saw one table, one chair, one small toolbox, and one boy sleeping on floor.

"Oga Chuks?" I asked.

The boy woke up. "Na me be Chuks. You be who?"

I brought out card. He laughed.

"Ah, the pure water boy! You come. Oya test you."

He brought out a dead Infinix Hot 8. Screen black.

"Repair am. If you repair am, I go give you work. Salary ₦15k per month."

Fifteen thousand? For whole month? But I said no worry, I go try.

I opened phone. It was battery connector problem. Small work. I fixed it in 20 minutes. Phone on.

Chuks clapped. "You sabi! Oya you don get work! But... you go pay oga money first. ₦50k for learning. Everybody dey pay am for Computer Village."

My balloon burst.

"₦50k? Oga you say salary-"

"Na so e be. You pay ₦50k, I teach you 6 months, then you go dey collect salary. If you no pay, you no fit work."

I had ₦1,800 left after Mama Nkechi wahala. Where I wan see ₦50k?

I trekked back to Oshodi. No money for bus. Two hours trek. Leg pain. Heart pain.

When I reached, Kemi asked "How? You get am?"

I told her. She hissed. "Na thief! All of them na thief! Dem dey use that format collect money from JJC like you!"

I sat down. No conductor work. No pure water work. No Computer Village work.

That night, one Hausa man wey dey carry cement for Alaba saw me. His name was Musa.

"Yaro, you strong. You wan follow us go Alaba tomorrow? We dey load cement for trailer. One trailer, ₦2,000 for each boy."

Two thousand for carrying cement? My back already pained me just hearing it. But hunger no get pride.

Next morning, 4am, I entered truck with 10 other boys to Alaba International. We reached site by 5:30am. One big trailer full of Dangote cement — 600 bags.

Oga said, "Offload am before 12pm, una go collect money."

One bag is 50kg. 600 bags. 10 boys. That is 60 bags per person.

I carried first bag. My spine cracked. I thought I would die. Cement dust entered my eye, my nose, my mouth. By bag number 10, my shirt was white like ghost. My hands were shaking.

Boys were singing to get strength:

"Omo Alaba, we no dey tire! Owo lawa fe!"

By bag 30, I fell. Cement bag fell on top of me. Dust everywhere. Musa pulled me up.

"Stand up! If you fall again, oga no go pay you!"

I stood up. I carried again. Tears mixed with sweat but nobody see because my face full of dust.

By 1pm, we finished. 600 bags offloaded. My body was not my body again. I could not straighten my back.

Oga counted money. ₦2,000 per person. He gave me ₦1,500.

"Oga na ₦2,000 you talk-"

"₦500 for truck wey carry you come. You think say truck na free?"

I collected. I could not argue. I had no strength.

Inside bus going back to Oshodi, I counted my money. ₦1,500. My back pained me like someone beat me with cane. My hands had blisters.

But when I reached Oshodi, Kemi was waiting with food — rice and stew inside nylon.

"Tunde, you try today. See your body."

I ate with dust hand. She did not complain.

That night, I opened my notebook. My hand could not write well. I wrote with pain:

"Day 12: Carried cement. Made ₦1,500. Body pained. But I no die. I go still make am."

Kemi read it and said, "You go make am, but not with cement. God go open way."

She was right. Because next morning, a man who watched me carry cement at Alaba would come to Oshodi to find me — and he would not be coming to offer cement work.

END OF PART ONE