Echoes of the Yellow Danfo

Lagos.

The horn-honking, dreaming, and hustling danfo buses city.

Dami was used to the routine. Every morning at 5:00 AM, she struggled into a yellow bus at Ojuelegba to reach CMS for her internship at a law firm. Rain threatened to fall from the heavens this morning, and her N200 in the soggy bag was soaked. She stood on the sidewalk, shivering slightly, braids dripping with the morning rain.

A danfo skidded to a halt. She jumped in.

Last seat.

She squeezed into the space between a kerosene-scented man and a woman whose phone was ringing loudly in her ear.

“I say bring the money today! Abi you think say I wait forever?”
Dami sighed.

But she noticed the man beside her. He wore a hoodie and a scar on his knuckles. His fingers tapped rapidly.
He looked over at her.

Then hissed, “If anything happens to come down in the next five minutes, deny knowing me.”

Her heart leaped.

“Sorry?” she asked.

But he shunned her eyes.

Thirty seconds on, the danfo made an odd turn—off the express onto a dusty inner street. Some of the passengers complained.

“Driver, na where you dey go?!”

“Make una calm down,” the conductor shouted. “Hold your change!”

Then two guys stood up from the back and pulled short guns.

“Everybody quiet! Your phone and wallet—now!”

Dami stood frozen.

The guy with the scar beside her didn’t blink. Rather, he smiled. One of the robbers looked at him and hesitated.

“You?”

Scar-man smiled. “Long time, Smallie.”

“Wetin you dey do here?”

“Same thing you. Other mission.”

A few moments of tension passed. Then the man gestured with his gun. “Leave am. He be my guy. The girl too.”

That was all, and Dami was let off.

After the robbers had disembarked and the danfo went on its way as if the incident had never happened, Dami couldn’t breathe.

She turned to the man beside her. “Who. who are you?”

“Name’s Bayo. You?”

“Dami. What happened?”

He smiled. “Let’s just say I’m not on anyone’s payroll. anymore.”

Before she could ask more, he stood up and got off at the next junction.

She thought that would be the last she saw of him.

She was wrong.

Three days later, her law firm sent her to the police station to file paperwork for a case involving a missing person. It was part of her intern duties.

As she stood in line, she saw a face.

Bayo.

He was sitting across from a detective, smiling.

Their eyes met.

He winked.

The officer stared at her. “Do you know this man?”

“I—uh. just saw him on a bus once.”

Bayo smiled. “She’s my cousin. Dami. Right, cousin?”

She nodded rigidly.

The officer frowned. “Fine. But we’re going to have to keep an eye on you. Your name keeps coming up.”

Bayo turned to face Dami as they emerged outside. “Thanks, cousin. Will you allow me to treat you to amala and ewedu?”

“You’re a police wanted person. Why would I eat with you?”

He grinned. “Because you’re curious. And I can help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Discovering the truth.”

Dami’s boss had given her a tough case recently—the disappearance of two young girls whose parents feared human trafficking. The case was cold. No witnesses. No leads.

Bayo told him he knew something.

“There’s a Mushin brothel. But it’s a front. Girls enter. Only some leave.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I used to work security for them. Before I discovered what they were doing. Before I attempted to stop them.”

“And now?”

“Now I run.”

She wasn’t sure why she believed him. Maybe because he never asked for anything.

So they conspired. She’d go undercover. He’d get her in.

Nighttime Mushin was a different world. The house looked normal—a two-storey with flashing lights and bumping music.

Inside, Dami played a new girl in search of a job.

The madam sized her up. “New face. You sure you want this way of life?”

“I no get choice, ma.”

She was let in.

For two nights, she scrubbed, served drinks, and spied.

On the third night, she saw them.

Two girls. Same description as the missing ones. But they looked drugged.

She snuck photos. Sent them to her boss.

But someone was watching.

A tall man with tattoos.

He cornered her in the kitchen. “You’re not one of us. Who sent you?”

She panicked.

Then Bayo appeared.

“She’s with me. Any problem?”

The man backed off. “You again. Always in wahala.”

That night, Bayo and Dami fled.

They hid temporarily in an empty, abandoned church in Yaba.

He took in more.

“The mastermind is powerful. A commissioner. He funds the place. That’s why the police stay away from them.”

“Name?”

“Oba Fajuyi.”

Dami stood frozen. Oba Fajuyi was her boss’s client. A family friend.

“That is impossible. He’s. he’s kind. Generous.”

“That’s how they all seem. Until you find the basement.”

They entered the Mushin house again—this time with hidden cameras.

Everything was recorded. The girls. The madam. Even the commissioner visiting at night.

They leaked the footage anonymously online. Within hours, it trended.

The brothel was raided. Girls rescued.

But Dami’s boss fired her.

And she was being watched.

CHAPTER NINE: THE ABDUCTION

One night, on her way home from her aunt’s, a black SUV pulled up beside her. Men grabbed her.

She was blindfolded, tied.

They took her to a warehouse.

Then she heard a voice.

Oba Fajuyi.

“You thought you could shame me? You and that street rat Bayo? Lagos will not choose you over me?”

Then was the sound of a gunshot.

Followed by silence.

Dami woke up in the hospital.

Bayo sat next to her, his arm in a sling.

“You’re alive,” she whispered.

“You too. That’s something.”

He’d saved her. Fought to protect her. Taken a bullet.

Fajuyi was arrested. The evidence from the cameras was watertight.

Weeks passed.

She was employed by an international human rights agency.

Bayo disappeared again. Left a message:

“When you hear a danfo horn at midnight, that’s me saying goodbye.”

Dami waited on Ojuelegba, watching yellow buses rush past.

She smiled.

What began as a journey to work turned into a battle for the truth.

Sometimes, it’s not the arrival.

It’s the person sitting beside you.