I can never forget the day I entered a one-chance ride.
It was the first Sunday in December, and it was a Thanksgiving service in church. I felt so lazy that morning, dragging my feet and debating whether or not to attend the service. I battled guilt like I was a sinner who had committed some grave offense.
To be fair, it wasn’t the first time I’d skipped church, but this time felt different —like a weight was pressing on my conscience. My mum called to remind me to attend, and I said, “Okay.” Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going. But the guilt lingered, making me restless.
On top of that, I had another decision to make: take a bus or order a ride-hailing service to get to the mainland later in the day? My new job was on the mainland, but I lived on the island. Since I hadn’t found a place to stay (shoutout to the madness of house hunting in Lagos), I was temporarily staying with my mum’s friend on the mainland. My usual routine was to leave the Island on Sunday, crash at their place for two nights, and return to the Island on Tuesday.
I decided to take a bus because I feared my mum’s friend would guilt-trip me if I used a ride-hailing service. Then came another decision: which bag should I carry? I finally settled on a school bag and a tote bag that didn’t even have a zip.
Something about that Sunday morning felt off. I was restless, disturbed, unhappy, and disoriented.
At the bus stop, I waited patiently until I found a bus heading towards CMS. The conductor asked where I was going, I said Obalende, and he agreed to drop me off there. We haggled briefly over the fare, I hopped into the front seat, and we went off. It was a smooth ride, but 40 minutes into the ride, the conductor said they wouldn’t be going to Obalende anymore, and I could look for another bus at the next stop. I was annoyed, but I figured arguing with a Lagos conductor was a waste of time especially if you aren’t fluent in Yoruba.
At the next stop (this was after Bonny Camp), a big white bus drove past me, and I told the conductor I was going to Obalende. The bus wasn’t empty—it had the driver, a passenger in the front, another passenger at the back seat, and the conductor hanging by the door.
I decided to sit in the front seat close to the door because, you know, Lagos wisdom says sitting in the middle of two people in the back is an easy way to get robbed. As the bus moved, I couldn’t help noticing how filthy the passenger’s oversized bag was or how unnervingly fat they seemed, especially the guy beside me.
As we drove off, the driver asked me to place my school bag on the dashboard because it blocked the view of his side mirror. I had my school bag (with my work laptop and clothes) on my lap and my tote bag (with my phone, purse, Apple Watch, and other items) by my right side. I drew the school bag close to my chest (thinking about it now, they probably would have taken that bag).
Next, the conductor said there was a road safety officer or police checkpoint ahead and began adjusting the seatbelt on my side. He opened the door while the bus was moving. He kept slamming the door and tugging at the belt, saying something about how it wasn’t working. I was irritated and confused, so I told him to leave it—I’d hold the seatbelt myself.
Then, the conductor said I should come down, and move to the backseat since the seat belt wasn’t functional. I agreed and got down to switch seats, but as soon as I stepped out, the conductor said they weren’t going to my stop anymore. I laughed and said, “Ah, Lagos conductors have shown me pepper.”
Again, I didn’t have the strength to argue. Then they sped off. Everything happened so fast.
It wasn’t until I reached into my bag for my phone that I realised it was gone. Yeeee, they’ve taken my phone… I just got robbed by one-chance. I was in shock. I didn’t know where I was, and I couldn’t use Google Maps or order a ride because my phone was gone.
For the first time in my life, I understood what shock felt like. I stood there, trembling and disoriented, not knowing where I was. My phone was my lifeline—it was how I navigated Lagos, stayed connected, and even made money. I hadn’t even thought to check if anything else was missing. My mind was fixated on my phone.
I walked a little further and saw two men sitting under a tree with a child. The presence of the child gave me a sense of safety, so I approached them, begging to borrow their phone. But in my panic, I couldn’t remember my parents’ numbers. I kept typing my number instead. After a moment, I pulled myself together, managed to dial my mum, and explained what had happened.
Thankfully, my purse—with all my cash, ATM cards, and even my Apple Watch—was still intact. The thieves had only taken my phone. They’d quickly disconnected my watch from the phone, but I could still access some of my contacts.
When I got home, I couldn’t help but feel like God was punishing me for missing the church service. But at the same time, I was grateful they hadn’t taken my purse, which held my house rent savings, or harmed me physically.
I called my bank immediately, locked my accounts, and blocked the phone. Through my work laptop (thank God they didn’t take that), I messaged friends and colleagues, letting them know that I entered a one-chance ride and got robbed.
That night, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel safe. I blamed myself—why hadn’t I been more careful? Why did God let this happen? Just weeks earlier, I’d been thanking Him for protecting me from accidents and theft in Lagos. And now this?
This experience messed me up. Until now, I haven’t been able to enter a public bus for long trips. I use ride-hailing services, even though they’re expensive. The stolen phone is still at a location in Ladipo, according to its tracker, but reporting to the police? That’s another headache—and expense—I’m not ready for.
I checked X (fka Twitter) to read other experiences entering a one-chance ride. So many sad stories.
These days, I tell myself I’m paying for peace of mind. But Lagos taught me a hard lesson that day, and it’s one I’ll never forget. I won’t be using a public bus anytime soon.
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