My name is Oladipupo, but everyone calls me Ladi. I’m 29 and a graduate of Ogun State University, and once upon a time, I was a banker. I wore suits, processed transactions, and acted like I had my life together until the bank merged and I became redundant.

To be honest; it messed me up. One day, I had a steady salary. The next, I was unemployed, watching my savings disappear like Lagos power supply.

I needed a plan. Fast.

So, I did what Lagos people do, I hustled.

I took what was left of my savings, borrowed money from my friend’s dad, and bought a Toyota Corolla. Registered for one of those ride-hailing apps. And just like that, I became a Lagos taxi driver.

Some people say driving in Lagos is hell. They’re not wrong. Between fuel shortages and queues, LASTMA, police checkpoints, danfo drivers, okadas, keke napep and passengers who think your car is their personal therapist’s office, this work is not for the weak. But somehow, I survive.

I live in Ajah, sharing a three-bedroom house with my ex-work colleague and two university friends. Every other Sunday, I visit my parents in Ogba, where my mother never fails to remind me that I should have married by now.

Speaking of women, there was Tolani. The one that got away. Or the one who left me when life got rough. Lagos relationships are like danfo buses. If you miss your stop, another one will come, but the ride may not be smooth.

Now, I spend my days picking up strangers. And in Lagos, strangers come with stories. Lagos is a city where anything can happen. One day, you’re driving a CEO who won’t stop ranting about his workers. The next day, you’re helping a pregnant woman whose water just broke in your back seat. Some days, you’re a getaway driver for a celebrity dodging paparazzi.

This is my life. These are my memoirs.