The Minibuses Trap
In 1978, the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway was still under construction. So, the smart drivers, the experienced ones sent to pick up freshly arrived Oyinbo (Peeled People) from Ikeja Airport, were already using the new route to Ibadan. Never mind that it was still in the jungle-clearing stage.
Sami landed in Nigeria one evening, coming to start his contract. His driver, ahead of the game, took the bush-clearing route straight through the jungle.
Before the big flight, Sami had done his homework. He studied maps, gathered intel on Nigeria, and even confirmed that the distance from Lagos to Ibadan was around 140 kilometers. About two hours’ drive, give or take. Through the jungle.
The next morning, I heard shouting coming from the head office. In fact, everyone heard it. Judging by the decibel level, even the neighbors in Agbegba must’ve paused their breakfast to listen.
Turns out, before Sami even had time to recover from his flight and jungle journey, his new manager, Engineer Donald, whom he met for the very first time that morning, completely lost his temper. Over something Sami said.
"What exactly did you tell him to get him that worked up?" I asked.
Sami looked baffled.
"All I said was that the trip was fine. Not too long. About 140 kilometers, through the jungle. Then Donald jumps up and yells that I clearly have no idea what I’m talking about."
"Donald says he’s been in Nigeria for three years, and everyone knows the distance from Lagos to Ibadan is at least 500 kilometers!"
Sami, still innocent, replied: “I gently told him I had checked the map, and it’s definitely 140 kilometers.”
“Well, that’s when Donald exploded. Started screaming: ‘How dare you argue with me?! I’ve been here three years! You just got off the plane yesterday!’”
Of course, it is completely unacceptable for some new guy named Sami to land yesterday and have the audacity to argue with his manager about something as fundamental as the distance between Lagos and Ibadan. Worse, backing up his claim just because it's factually, correct? That’s not how things work. Especially not with someone like Engineer Donald, who’s been in Nigeria for, let’s repeat, three years.
It’s easier to believe a lie you’ve heard a hundred times than a truth you’re hearing for the first time.
There’s a Yoruba proverb for this: “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you’re wise.”
Sami said, “Yes, in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t so wise to argue about distances on my first day.”
Donald’s stubbornness reminded me of a girl from my school days who once spent five full hours trying to convince me she wasn’t stubborn. Her argument? That when someone persuades her, she gets persuaded. That’s it.
So, now Sami is at our guesthouse. One evening we went out to dinner at Kokodome—one of the few restaurants in Ibadan where Oyinbo (peeled people) can eat without the risk of a hospital visit. Lebanese food. Safe, mostly.
Over dinner, Sami tells me about something odd he saw near Lagos: hundreds of shiny, new minibuses, stuck on top of a strange man-made hill. A wide, flat platform of reddish laterite clay, with slopes so steep—almost three meters tall—there’s no way the vehicles could’ve driven up. Or down.
“How did those minibuses get up there?” he asked. “And more importantly, how are they supposed to come down? Hundreds of minibuses are trapped in a parking lot without the possibility of getting down."
I had seen them too.
“I honestly have no idea,” I said.
A few days later, I ran into Ayodele Temitope—Tope for short—who was, or perhaps had been, a Catholic priest in Lagos. We met at some function. A storyteller and a thinker. He struck me as a wise man.
As a priest in the Catholic Church, Tope is bound by a vow of celibacy, so no wife and no children. On the other hand, as part of his duties is to counsel on matters concerning family life.
The members of his congregation cannot understand how can he counseling them, on family matters, when he himself has no family.
“Yoruba people don’t buy that,” he said. “You can’t fool them. You don’t have a wife or kids—how are you going to advise us on raising children?”
Seeing his wisdom and experience, I asked Tope about the mystery of the trapped minibuses.
“Well sir,” he said "You are too curious." And he added “the more intelligent you are, the more curious you shall be.”
As for the minibuses, it goes like that.
The soil around the Lagos-Ibadan expressway is laterite— which is considered as a good material for the base and sub-base layers of the road. The German contractor who won the contract to construct Lagos-Ibadan expressway needed massive quantities of it.
So, naturally, he looked for laterite close to the construction area. To minimize the transport costs.
The contractor began excavating around the area immediately after signing the contract with the Federal Ministry of Works.
Right next to the construction site, there was a parking lot—home to hundreds of shiny, just-imported minibuses, all belonging to Lagos State. The lot was built on land owned by a prominent local chief. The state paid him a monthly fee to rent the space.
That chief—let’s call him Chief Parking Lot—was no novice. He was a negotiation grandmaster. Especially with Oyinbo. And particularly with German Oyinbo.
When the German contractor tried to negotiate compensation for the land, the Chief began, as is customary, by asking for N2,000,000. His real goal? N100,000. But this is Nigeria, and this is how the dance begins.
The German contractor does not understand the ins and outs of that negotiation system in Nigeria; they are unfamiliar with the dance. So, they panicked. They had N50,000 budgeted—no more, no less—and no clearance from HQ to exceed it. They believe that there is no one to talk to.
Chief Parking Lot, ever the professional, came back the next day with a generous discount:
N1.8 million. Still no deal.
Those German Oyinbos are not moving from the N50,000. A budget is a budget, and anyway there is no management approval to go beyond the budget.
And so, the days are coming and going and while the negotiations dragged on, the contractor gradually shaving and excavating, around the chief's parking lot.
Every day, the chief would offer additional discount, as he does for his entire life.
And every day, the contractor would shave away another layer of red clay from the surrounding terrain.
Gradually, the contractor deepens the excavations around the parking lot, leaving the chief's parking lot high above the excavated area. Like an island in the middle of the sea. At some point, the parking lot becomes a trap for minibuses.
And that, my friend, is how hundreds of brand-new Lagos minibuses got themselves stuck on a hill.
That’s the whole story.
Except… a few months later, the Lagos State Commissioner of Works noticed the absurd Minibus Mountain and stormed down to see the Parking Lot chief in person. He gave him an ultimatum: Get those damn buses down. Now.
So, the chief turned—urgently, humbly—to the one person who could help: the German contractor.
“Yes, of course I can help,” the contractor said.
“My price? N2,000,000.”