At the Junction where Sorinmade Street meets the Eyita-Ojokoro Road was my designated pick-up point for the daily commute to Lekki on the Staff Bus. Joining me here, on most days, was Sanjo Bankole.

Prior to the bus getting to us, people like Mrs. Mariam Lawal and Mr. Jide Odujole would have been picked up.

We knew that spot as Tile-Tile Olomi, a nickname born from the nearby house of Tile-Tile himself, the local water vendor. His overflowing storage tanks, a boon to parched throats, were a bane to the already fragile, graded road, slowly washing it away with each spill.

It was also at this junction that my Vento-driving Oga, Mr. C.A. Odumuyiwa lived. I couldn’t be following him to Lekki because of his commitments to his family, so I had to be at this point by about 6am.

After we have been picked, the bus makes its way down the Sorinmade Street to pick up Mr. Abiodun Ogunsola, popularly called Uncle B and the man that now only laugh in Swahili, Gbenga Akinmoladun. Also, joining around here were Festus Oyewole and Clement Ademuwagun. Picking up folks like Ujene and a few others, we will burst out at Benson Bus Stop to the Lagos-Ikorodu Road.

Depending on the traffic advisory the ‘Pilot’ had received from the dispatcher and other pilots on his 2 way radio, he takes the bus on the Lagos Road or faces the Ijebu-Ode road, a longer route that will take us through Majidun, Epe and the, then, traffic free Lekki-Epe Road to the office.

The moment the bus tires touched the paved road, leaving behind the dusty labyrinth of Ikorodu’s back roads, it was lights out. Everyone, save the driver, naturally, would succumb to the sweet embrace of sleep, trying to recoup the hours lost to a 5 a.m. wake-up call. Chief Odukalu was the exception, a stalwart companion to the driver, keeping him company on those early morning journeys.

We had our favourite breakfast spots in those days. Coming to the office via the Third Mainland Bridge meant a stopover at the Ghana Embassy for Ghana Rice. While I do not want to start another debate about which is better—Nigerian Jollof or Ghana Jollof—I want to state unequivocally that if you had not tasted the Ghana Rice sold at the Embassy in those days, you missed a major culinary experience. Men and women (even those “pepperless ones,” you know them), from all walks of life, were all there getting their tummies nourished in preparation for the day’s business.

Those dimly lit dining rooms, with their whirring fans and long wooden benches drawn up to matching tables, were a hub of pre-social media networking. Before Facebook and LinkedIn, this was where connections were forged. It was there, amidst the clatter and the chatter, that I ran into a former classmate of mine, a man who, in the eight years since we’d last seen each other, had become a veritable mogul in the Nigerian capital market.

When our commute took us along the Lekki-Epe Expressway, our breakfast haven was in Ajah. And on those days, Lafun was the undisputed champion. Yes, Lafun with Abula, first thing in the morning. You simply cannot fathom the life it breathed into a team of savvy professionals, ready to tackle another day of work for Chevron. I am convinced Chevron owed that Lafun woman a medal of honour, maybe even a share of the annual profits, for her unparalleled service to their employees.

In route 5A, not very sure I remember it correctly, we were from different tribes and tongues but saw Ikorodu as home. Our Pilot was Odiase, and he taught me invaluable lessons in asset preservation just from observing how he managed both the bus and his personal car, he was that meticulous.

In those days we also had one AlphaPaPa (APP, and don’t start asking me to explain this) commuting with us. His name? Jeun-Jeun, at least that was what he was popularly called. Till date I don’t know what his real name is.

“Jeun-Jeun” was indeed an apt nickname. Witnessing him demolish the mountains of food the “Whassan” caterers prepared left no room for doubt. His physique seemed to be a response to the popular Yoruba proverb, “Eni to ba yokun ni ke gbe owo fun,” He hadn’t heeded the warnings about a day of reckoning. And then, that day arrived.

Chevron had a policy that all in the bus must wear seat belts. So he did, as we all did. But Jeun-Jeun was a man of considerable size, a size that the Toyota guys at Chubu, Japan did not consider when they designed the seat belts.As the bus reached the foyer, that fateful morning, everyone unbuckled, except Jeun-Jeun. His seatbelt buckle had been “swallowed” by his ample stomach, rendering it inaccessible. Panic ensued. The fight-or-flight response kicked in, and Jeun-Jeun began to hyperventilate, almost to the point of tears, frantically calling for help. It took the concerted effort from some empathisers to disentangle the buckle from its unexpected imprisonment.

Whassan was not too bad as a caterer. However, the initial allure of “free food,” particularly captivating for newcomers to the Lekki campus, quickly fades. The aroma emanating from the cafeteria begins to induce a sense of nausea. Thank God for Iya Kogi, being the nearby alternative.

Given the location of her buka, and the clientele it attracted – men and women of influence and means – some speculated that her culinary prowess extended beyond just the ordinary ingredients (I know you know what I mean, yes, exactly what you are thinking)

Why would people abandon ‘free food’ and then subject themselves to the long lines for lunch, with some picking up and washing the plates with which they would be served food? This was enough to fuel the whispers. I don’t disagree with them but since he who alleges must prove, I have been waiting for the proof.

When Chevron embarked on the Twin Lakes project, I secretly hoped for a revelation: the discovery of a grave at where her buka used to be, perhaps of a human being, cow or goat, a testament to the rumoured practices that had undoubtedly contributed to her success, albeit no such thing had been found till date and therefore one can only conclude that fresh fish or goat soup cooked with Iru (locust beans) trumps anything made with Maggi or Knorr.

Among the restaurant’s most loyal patrons were Mr.Ajide, Alhaji Owodunni, Caleb Adeyemo, Jummy Olagunju, the aptly nicknamed “Small Body, Big Engine,” Bode Kolawole, Mrs Adewale and many others. Everybody visited. Even Mrs. Nnaobi, despite her Ajebota looks as her eyeglasses present, and her gang of three did visit. In a way, Iya Kogi’s buka was our own version of “The Rich Also Cry,” the famous restaurant in Port Harcourt. Her food had a fiery kick that would leave you sweating profusely, yet you’ll yearn to come back the next day.To be honest, not everyone frequented Iya Kogi’s for the food alone. Let’s just say her curvaceous, beautiful daughter’s charm had a certain… appeal. I know names, but discretion is advised for now, except I get offended by some.

At the end of the workday, we’d all converge from our various assignments to catch the bus. But there was one surefire sign that it was time to go: the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Fawehinmi’s high heels. She was devoted to her work during office hours, but come 4:30 PM, she was out the door. No manager dared to keep her past closing time; not even the fear of the dreaded PMP could deter her.

Our bus was usually among the first few to leave, signalling the start of the long journey home. If we took the route through town, we braced ourselves for the inevitable traffic jams at Dolphin, Third Mainland, and Ketu-Alapere. But, we count it all joy if we follow the Epe route and it was the harvest season. There were women, not our wives, that counted it all joy as well to see us. After passing through Majidun, we would often make a brief stop to purchase fresh, boiled corn, perhaps with pear or whatever other seasonal treats were available. Some had bought fresh palm wine from the roadside as well. These snacks would sustain us until we reached Itamaga, where the first passenger would typically disembark.

Regardless of the route, the bus rides were always filled with lively discussions, sometimes even heated debates. We’d tackle a wide range of topics, engaging in lively exchanges that transcended any notion of ethnicity or hierarchical relationships within the company.