And barely survived it.
You see, when you live in Nigeria and you’re planning to travel by road using public transportation, joy is a dangerous thing to carry…..CONTINUE FULL READING>>>>>
Because no matter how well you prepare how many times you charge your phone, wear fine perfume, or soak yourself in anointing oil there’s always one thing, one mysterious twist of fate, that will come to ruin it all.
There are many things they don’t teach you about adulthood in school.
They won’t tell you how to emotionally recover from a 300 level carryover.
They won’t prepare you for Abuja rent prices.
They won’t explain how horrible fufu tastes.
But most importantly, they won’t teach you how to mentally, emotionally, and spiritually survive body odour in a public car.
I was traveling from Jos to Lafia. It wasn’t even supposed to be a long trip just four to five hours and some dust. I had prayed before leaving the house, asked God for journey mercies, and even wore my “travel perfume” (the one that smells like wealth and answered prayers). I entered the park with hope in my lungs and joy in my chest.
That joy vanished the moment I entered the car.
The car was one of those Sharon cars. I had
A window seat, which I initially celebrated. I thought I had won. Until this man this agent of respiratory warfare sat beside me.
Let me explain:
This wasn’t ordinary body odour.
This was not “I forgot to use deodorant” kind of smell.
This was not “I’m coming from the farm” type of musk.
This was ancestral.
This was generational.
This was warfare.
Let me tell you what his body odour smelt like.
It smelt like expired onions soaked in kerosene.
It smelt like a prison break inside a fish market.
It smelt like his sweat had travelled from Lagos to Sokoto on foot, without rest or purpose.
The thing is, it wasn’t just his armpits that were protesting. No. His whole body was a collective rebellion against freshness.
Every pore of his skin was screaming for deliverance. My brother in Christ was marinated in mustiness. And he was comfortable.
He adjusted beside me, raised his arm to rest on the window like he was posing for a perfume ad. That was when I knew I had entered tribulation.
I turned towards the window to inhale fresh air. But the wind could not compete. His odour had weight. It had mass. It had ambition.
The man looked like he had been sweating since January 1st. He wore a blue polo shirt, which used to be blue but now had a brown collar, like it had gone through spiritual battles. His armpits… oh, God.
They had formed their own climate. His body was giving “biohazard,” and yet he was unbothered.
The worst part? He was friendly.
This man wanted to gist.
He wanted to talk about politics.
He wanted to debate fuel subsidy removal.
He wanted to open his mouth wide and breathe his entire existence into my nostrils.
At some point, I started asking God deep questions:
“Lord, is this how I go?”
“Did I not honour You this morning?”
“Have I not been a faithful servant?”
I opened the window. Nothing.
I tried to turn my head. The smell followed.
I used my face towel to cover my nose. Не offered me groundnuts.
I wanted to scream.
If you’re reading this and you know deep down in your heart that you don’t spray perfume.
If you proudly say, “I’m natural,” but your “natural” is endangering others.
If people have stopped hugging you and instead started praying for your “personal hygiene ministry”.
Please. I’m begging you.
Even if it’s air freshener, just spray it.
Spray something.
Roll-on.
Body spray.
Cologne.
Perfume.
Essential oils.
Room spray.
Buy one from the supermarket. Spray one at the market. Borrow your roommate’s own if you must.
Just spray it.
Because smelling good is not luxury. It’s not pride. It is public safety.
I Survived… Barely
Back to my story.
The journey from Jos to Lafia is roughly 4/5 hours, but let me tell you it felt like four years.
I tried everything:
I chewed gum to distract myself.
I sprayed my own perfume, and it just mixed with his like a demonic cocktail.
I opened the window so wide a chicken could have flown in.
At one point, my nostrils gave up.
They said, “You’re on your own, sir.”
I started praying in tongues. Not even out of faith. Just panic.
I fantasized about escape.
I considered jumping out of the moving vehicle.
I plotted scenarios in my head what if I started coughing dramatically? What if I told the driver I had a condition? What if I just passed out and ended the suffering?
By the time we reached Akwanga, I had started hallucinating.
I was imagining my obituary:
“He was a kind man, but the stench was too strong.”
I looked out the window and began seeing my childhood flash before my eyes:
My first day in church.
My first heartbreak.
The first time I used a roll-on.
All of it.
When we finally got to Lafia, I came down from that car like someone who had just survived captivity.
I touched the ground.
I thanked God.
I promised to never sit in silence again.
I was never the same after that trip.
This is not a post about classism. It’s not about fashion. It’s about dignity. It’s about mercy. It’s about the simple act of consideration.
We all sweat.
We all have bad days.
But my dear, if you know you’re about to enter a confined space whether it’s a Keke, a Sienna, a Sharon car or even an air-conditioned car, do the right thing:
Spray. It.
I don’t care if it’s N350 perfume from the roadside that smells like pineapple Fanta or strawberry
I don’t care if it’s your roommate’s half-empty Nivea.
I don’t care if it’s mosquito spray
Even if it’s air freshener… Just spray it.
Please.
For humanity.
For oxygen.
For your seat partner.
We are all in this hot country together.
Let’s at least smell good while surviving it…..CONTINUE FULL READING>>>>>
