Now you must be catching my drift? You might have driven for ages and plied every route in New York where drivers are known globally for their unpredictability and theatrics, but driving in Lagos is a different kettle of fish all together. To start with, I have a revelation to make here. Take it. It has been proved that no car or truck is plying Lagos roads without scars, dents and tears as a result of the devilry of this group of terrorist drivers in Lagos.

This is so considering the fact that there is no seriousness on the part of the Lagos State government to regulate the training of every driver wannabe before they hit the roads. Any boy that can engage his father's or mother's car to a reverse or use gear one to move forward is already hailed by friends and family members as a pilot. From every corner of Nigeria, people are trooping into Lagos on daily basis for the proverbial golden fleece albeit the indigenous one, in their thousands. Report released by the Road Safety Commission put the figure of these new Lagosians at over fifty thousand everyday.

A visit to any of the markets in Lagos will convince you that this claim is true. You'll see nothing but sea of heads. When they arrive in search of greener pastures, the first thing they will see is the unavailability of jobs. The majority of them are unskilled and wouldn't fit into the requirements expected of them to pick such low-paying jobs that are mostly temporal. When reality strikes them, they get to understand the nature of life in Lagos. The motto guiding Lagos is “No one cares” about you. They start sleeping underneath the bridges and motor-parks dotting the entire landscape of the city.

As transportation is grossly inadequate in Lagos, smart Lagosians usually purchase some second-hand buses imported from different places in Europe to cash in on government's inadequacy in this vibrant sector of Lagos economy.

Heaven help you when you get into Lagos roads with any one of these fifth-rated terrorists behind the wheels. They are as evil as the siren-blaring government cars, bought with the tax-payers money and driven by trained mad dogs.

Everyday Lagosians have their hearts threatening to jump out of their body whenever a danfo driver of their government siren-blaring agbero driver is behind the wheels dangerously manoeuvring his car behind them. Most times its either you drive your car into the open gutter or you are given a debasing treatment for not getting out of the way of a government functionary in the army or in the public sector by their overzealous security detail.

Driving is dangerous to every road user in Lagos and it will take only a modern man sent by God Himself as governor in this megacity to turn things around by revamping the waterways, introduce the light rail transport systems, repair the ubiquitously potholes ridden roads and construct new bridges to save Lagosians from themselves. All these will get many Lagos drivers off the roads as they use other means of transportation to get on with their hectic way of life.

It was an eight-year case of suffering from destination myopia and lack of will and purpose. This World Bank programme destroyed the then emerging middle class and sent the majority of the Nigerian youths to the dump sites to scramble for survival and means of livelihood.

Living became mere existentialism. The cost of living overshoot the sky as more and more people became poor. The race of capital flight ensued as the value of naira is devalued over and over again. The rich most of who have benefited from petro-dollar inspired economic crimes against Nigeria and her people moved their money out of the country to show their loss of confidence in the economy.

Up till today, this has become a national hobby; hence the economic crimes former state governors are accused of. The intellectuals left the shores of Nigeria in their droves causing an unprecedented stigma of brain drain. Nigerian universities undergraduates are today said to be half-baked.

It is either you are poor or you are rich. The gap has widened so much that the poor devised a way of surviving in the face of living below $1 per day.

Mama Put became the answer. Here you get food for any amount you can afford. The dishes are well cooked and spiced to meet the nutritional needs of one's demanding body. The fun of Mama Put is that it is food for the upwardly mobile members of the Nigerian workforce at very affordable prices. Children of school age berth there for a helping before running off to school with their tasty and spicy booty in their food pack. The ingenuity of Nigerian food vendors came to the rescue of the pauperized Nigerians and put holes to the offensive statement made by a then cabinet minister that Nigerians would be dining with the pigs in no distant time in our various dump sites.

Today smart Nigerians have exported this food tradition to various countries of Europe and the Americas. Anywhere you see the letters saying Mama Put, do not hesitate, go in and give yourself a treat to Nigerian nutritional, tasty and well-spiced foods. This is our way of life. As McDonald's is to the United States of American citizens and the Europeans, so is Mama Put to Nigerians. Today we call it "meals in your mother tongue."

Bon Appetite!

When he opened his mouth to abuse a commercial motorcyclist popularly called okada who carelessly weaved his bike in his front making him hit the brake albeit fearfully, some smelly water from potholes jumped into his car and hit him all over. The sputum that came out of his mouth was thick as he spat out repeatedly. He shut his mouth and looked at the cause of the offensive in incredulity and anger. It was another driver whose tyre wobbled deep into a medium sized pothole covered by water that had ended up splashing Mike with the human waste smelly water.

It was with great effort he could stop the water from his head from getting into his mouth. His face looked aghast. The offending driver did not notice his misgiving and Mike’s agony. He engaged his car gear and continued on his way. Life in this mega-wanna-be-true city!

When he came out of the potholes and heading towards the Victoria Island, he observed much to his frustrations the repeatedly blinking red light on the dashboard reminding him the fuel level had gone to reserve.

“God!” Escaped his mouth.

He had only spent the last money on him fueling the car. A whopping =N=500 he had spent. Mike could not believe the money he was supposed to have given his wife for dinner was gone when he was yet to see passengers board his aged and battered Jetta saloon 1990 model car.

The sun was yet to rise as time was 7.30 a.m. when sweat broke out on his forehead and under his armpit.

“God please my children have to eat.” He earnestly supplicated.

He persisted, pressing hard on the accelerator until he got to CMS bus stop where workers who were desperately waiting to board any means of transportation to take them through the man-hour eating traffic and save them the villainy of their bosses who have zero tolerance for lateness to work no matter your reason.

He wound down his glass and asked them, “Where are you guys heading to?”

“Victoria Island!” they all chorused.

When the last passenger had disembarked from his four-seater saloon, he realized the sum of =N=300 for he had carried six passengers instead and had charged each of them the sum of =N=50. What exploitation! He thanked God for providing for him as he engaged the reverse gear to go pick more of the traumatized workers. His wife would be going to the market later in the day to pick up food items for his family of five, and his hunger-stricken children will be better off. He smiled wanly knowing that the struggles of an average Nigerian male are endless.