Keke that never took fare

It was raining hard in Surulere and the gutters were already overflowing. Keke drivers were parked under the bridge, refusing to move unless you paid double.

Amaka was soaked. She’d just gotten the call that her younger brother had collapsed at home and the clinic said “come now.” She had ₦200 in her pocket and the clinic was ₦800 away.

She stood there, waving, getting ignored. One keke driver looked at her, looked at the rain, and drove off.

Then an old green keke pulled up. No music. No flashy paint. Just a driver in a faded cap, eyes tired but steady.

“Where you dey go?” he asked.

“Clinic at Akerele,” Amaka said. “I no get enough money.”

The driver didn’t answer. He just opened the door. “Enter. We go talk when we reach.”

The ride was bumpy. Water splashed the sides. Amaka kept apologizing, saying “I go pay you later, I promise.” The driver just nodded and focused on the road.

When they got to the clinic, Amaka scrambled out. “Please wait, I go run inside and come back with money.”

The driver shook his head. “No need. Just make sure your brother dey okay.”

Amaka froze. “But the fare—”

“Consider it paid,” he said. Then he pointed to a small sticker on his dashboard. It was a faded photo of a boy, about 10 years old. “My son. Pneumonia. Three years ago. Keke broke down same way. No one stopped for me. He didn’t make it.”

Amaka’s throat tightened.

“I promised myself,” the driver continued, “that if I ever see person in trouble like that, I won’t ask for money first. I’ll ask if they’re alive first.”

He handed her an umbrella from the seat. “Take it. Return am next time you see me.”

Amaka ran into the clinic. Her brother pulled through.

For months after, she looked for that green keke around Surulere. Never saw it again. But every rainy day, she keeps an umbrella in her bag and never charges the struggling passenger full fare.