One and Last Chance

 "I thought I was just boarding a bus to church. Instead, Lagos handed me my first brush with a one chance vehicle"

It was a Sunday morning in my third month in Lagos. I was running late, and impatience whispered me into a decision I would never forget in a hurry.  Instead of waiting for the slow-loading buses at the park, I jumped into a moving bus on the express. 

The vehicle was a faintly yellow BRT-like bus, the kind Lagos is full of. Inside, rows of three-seaters at the back, and two seats in front. People were already seated, looking respectable, ordinary, and responsible. The conductor waved me to the front seat beside another passenger. I slid in, thinking nothing of it.

Though there were still empty seats to be filled, the driver sped off without waiting for more passengers. That should have warned me, but I brushed it aside. This is Lagos, I thought. Drivers here choose who they carry and who they leave behind.

Almost immediately, the conductor pressed me for my fare. I opened my bag to bring out the money and that’s when everything shifted.

Commotion broke out inside the bus. The man seated next to me began shouting that the conductor had refused to collect his fare ever since he entered the bus, asking why he was attending to me before him. Voices clashed in heated tones, with the conductor yelling back.  All the while, the conductor kept leaning toward me, insisting that I wear a seatbelt. But the belt was broken, impossible to fasten. His voice was sharp, pressing, impatient. "Madam make I help you wear am", he insisted.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The conductor barked at the driver to stop. He thrust my money back into my hand and told me to get off, that they were no longer willing to carry me for the sum of N300 from Lekki new market to a place not far from Maruwa junction.  Confused, I stepped down. Before I could even adjust my bag strap, the bus sped off, disappearing into the road.

I didn’t realise it immediately. It was only when I opened my bag to put the money back that I saw it: my phone was gone. I had entered a “one chance.”

For nearly a full minute, I couldn’t breathe properly. My body trembled uncontrollably, sweat prickled down my forehead, and a strange pressure made me feel like I might 'wee wee' on myself right there. My pulse told me to scream, but when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.

People walked by, glancing at me, but no one stopped. I was restless, visibly distressed...

I thought of crossing the road to head home instead of continuing to church. But in that state shaky, unfocused, I knew I could easily step into the path of an oncoming car. Something in me resisted. I forced myself to scream.

There was a young man nearby in a black and white T-shirt. I stumbled toward him, desperate for help. But as I got closer, he shifted away. To him, I might not have been a victim at all. I could be a bait. Lagos has hardened people with scams where women pretend to be in distress, luring in sympathizers who are then robbed by accomplices. To him, I could have been bait.

I told him my story, how I was robbed by the bus that just dropped me off. Slowly, he believed me. His face softened, but still carried caution. When I begged to use his phone to call my loved ones just to hear a voice to calm me, he refused. Fear still held his generosity in check.

I asked if he could direct me to where I could buy a small phone, one of those Nokia “torchlight” phones. That, he agreed to. He pointed me in the right direction.

I walked toward it trembling and crying. Passersby stared, some even muttered “sorry” from afar, but no one stepped close. In Lagos, empathy is a risky business. Many thought my story unbelievable. Victims of “one chance” are often beaten or badly injured. But here I was, still neat, still whole.  And so it seemed less real.

Just as I approached the direction the young man pointed out, a police van pulled up. Passerby jumped and jumped in excitement on my behalf. They helped me report my case to the officers, for my voice was still caught between sobs and shock.

The policemen came closer, held me by the hand and shoulder, steadying. For the first time that morning, I felt anchored.

They spoke plainly, without pity, but with clarity. “Block your phone line immediately,” one advised. “If criminals use it, the crimes will trace back to you.” The thought chilled me, but I knew he was right.

They took me to their station. There, I was finally given water to drink. The coolness steadied me, like the first calm breath after drowning. Together, we called my network provider to block my SIM card. They helped me contact my banks to freeze my accounts, protecting me from fraudulent withdrawals. Na there I come believe the slang "police na your friend". The police were my only friends at that moment.

After the documentation of the event, one of the policemen looked at me with quiet gravity. “Go to church,” he said. “And thank God. Many who enter one chance do not make it out alive, let alone unhurt. Thank God that it was only your phone they carried. Thank God that they did not ask for your ATM cards or your passwords. Thank God that you are still here.”

His words struck me with truth. I had lost my phone, yes. But I had not lost my life.

That same officer drove me to church, determined to see me safely to my destination. Before I stepped down from his vehicle, he promised: “We will try to track the phone, an iPhone leaves a trace.”

I walked into church that morning not just late, but changed. Shaken, yes. Scarred, perhaps. But alive, and held by grace. In Lagos, even in the darkest chaos, light still finds a way to break through.

Have you ever had a one chance experience?

Would you like to share what pattern was used on you?