"To err is human, to forgive is animal"

I discovered that even though I usually put on an exterior of calmness, gentility and aplomb, deep down, I am a maniac, with a million adventurous demons struggling to break free and burn down Lagos.

I love speed. I love the feel of it as I hit my transmission and have my little VW take a surge ahead. I love the passing wisps, as I overtake vehicles, with the thrilling rush of displaced air tearing past me, as I feel the blood begin to rush to my head. I am a speed maniac. I am possessed.

I also discovered the art of checking out women while driving. People did tell me that my sex life would take a facelift and become more active. However, what they didn’t say was that the effort to improve on that will be from my part, and that effort will be automated. It is now reflex behaviour for me to have dual focus on the wheels, with one eye on the road ahead, and the other trained on some bouncing booty.

The other day I almost had an autocrash because my two eyes were locked onto one wide waist. That waist was so juicy, that when I went to confess to my Pastor, I called it the way, the truth, and the life. Every other thing on earth is just vanity.

“Yansh will not kill you in Jesus name. Say Amen.” My Pastor prayed.

For the women, there can be no blame on their part. They simply cannot resist the devilish charms of a fat short boy in a black car. It is not their fault. Right now, Idris Elba and Justin Timberlake have nothing on me. I am Akwa Ibom James Bond, Eko’s Dwayne Johnson, and Lekki’s David Beckham.

But it isn’t all sweet and nice. Every blessing comes with a set of curses. If you have legs, and you walk on the road, that curse will be pick-pockets, water-splash from fast careless cars, Agbero threatening your life, and many others.

Cars are another dimension of Wahala. First you have to deal with crazy Danfo drivers. They hit you, harass you, make you crash, and curse you, your mother, your father, your dead homie, your dreams and your ancestors.

I thought I had escaped the Agberos and their nonsense until one cracked my windshield in the middle of traffic, because ‘I almost hit his leg’. He literally, savagely punched my windscreen until it cracked.

I came down jejely. And he advanced looking to fight. I smiled slightly, and said the magic words.

“Young man, today you go pay for my glass.”

“Pay wetin you bin wan jam me”.

“For middle of road na so I wan jam you? Okay sorry. Pay for my glass”

“I no break your glass”.

I took him round the vehicle, took pictures of the cracked glass, and said “make we dey go police station. You go sleep there until your mama come pay for my glass”.

People had gathered. Everyone kept begging me. There was a lot of “Abeg Sir”, “Forgive him Sir”, “Oga ejor”, “Oga please”, “Oga e ma bin”.

I was adamant. This hoodlum needed to be taught a lesson, and the devil has chosen me to be that teacher.

How dare he crack my glass? Him fit buy tire?

Just then, one old woman came through the crowd, put her hand over my shoulder, and whispered softly to me, in a weak voice, and thick Yoruba accent.

“My son, live this man. Looking at him, you will know that he does not have one Naira in his pocket. To be honest, he doesn’t even know how he will eat this night. Leave him and God will bless you.”

My heart got melted, I simply, said okay, and got into my car and raced off. I felt really honourable for obeying the voice of that woman.

But as I sit in my car writing this, I look at the windscreen, and see the crack widening and regret hit me.

I shouldn’t have driven away. That guy should have paid. I swore never to forgive again. To err is human, to forgive makes me feel stupid like an animal.

See you next Tuesday. Peace and good hustle.