SATIRICALLY YOURS: On those Lagos roads

I do not like driving. I have always suspected that this feeling of mine is more a factor of my location than that of a deeply channelled revulsion stemming from a conflict of my psyche. It's like trying to enjoy the sunset in the middle of a war-driving anywhere else might be fun but driving in Lagos is a drag. There are just too many things wrong with it.

First of is the obvious danger posed by the unstoppable motorcycle riders. We humans have had to adapt to their strange laws of motor control. If you run into a bike, you're in trouble. If you get run in by a bike, you're in trouble regardless of your position. It doesn't matter if your car was parked at the side of the road, with a large "Sleeping. Do not disturb" banner hung over the bonnet, boot and emblazed on large neon lit sign. The fault will still be yours for having "carelessly" parked a car at the side of the road as opposed to say-breaking it down into tiny bits and storing it in boxes until you need it again.

Alongside the danger posed by these motorbikes are an even bigger danger known as the Lagos Molue. Here the rules of confrontation are the same but the laws of damage are a lot larger. Most times the crashes involved with a Molue are so severe that you end up taking the bus home. And yes, you still have to pay for the fare.

This all might have been easy to bear if the madness was limited to the antics of commercial drivers but sadly it is not. When the topic of the dangers associated with driving in Lagos is discussed, there is the depressing case of everyone else to consider. My mum once told me that if I could successfully drive in Lagos then I could effectively drive anywhere else in the world. I am yet to visit Rome or the winding hills of Kabul, but I do believe that she has a point. The rules on driving in Lagos seems to be centred on a primal need for space. The aim-as I see it-is to cover as much space in front of you as you possibly can. Spare no quarter. God forbid that you slow down and allow that estate being driven by a woman with two shivering children ease its way in front of you. That would simply be unbearable. Irresponsible. Completely against the laws of Lagos driving-which clearly states that children should be scared out of their wits once they get into a car.

To be honest though, I am guilty of the same thing. I ask my mum never to have breakfast if we are going out for the drive. She is so terrified of my driving that she chooses to sit in front of the car with her seat belt on and three pillows stacked between her and the dashboard. I am not sure what the other drivers think about the setup but most of them take one look at my mum and quickly slow down for me. I am yet to think of a suitable explanation, if I ever do get pulled over by Lagos State Traffic Management Authority. Occasionally, I mentally play out the conversation in my head if this did eventually happen.

"Hello officer. Yes this is my mum. What is she doing with those pillows? Lunch I expect. What? No I don't know why her knees are shivering. Yes I drive carefully Haba."

When I can, I enjoy staring at cars and reading the stories of their confrontation. Scratches on the grill and bumpers all speak of encounters mid traffic. Sometimes I wonder how terrified new cars might possibly feel. Driving in the skin of their yet-to-be-dented paint job. The average life span of a new car being regularly driven in the streets of Lagos is eight months. Anytime after that and I most probably might run into you.

So yes. I am not a fan of driving. The rules involved are much too complicated for my fragile mind to grasp. Every month I promise myself that I will park my car and begin to take long walks to the places I need to go. It is a promise I am getting wary of making. It is particularly worrying that a part of me laughs every time I make this declaration. I might be wrong but I suspect that, by virtue of its residence in my psyche, my subconscious is privy to information that we both are aware of.

I might not like driving. But I loathe walking.