The Senator's Driver

Drive Me Crazy

The following morning, Senator Adeniyi sat in his favorite armchair, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the day’s newspaper spread neatly on his lap. Golden sunlight filtered through the wide windows, casting streaks of warmth across the polished marble floor. The scent of freshly baked toast bread from the kitchen lingered in the air like a gentle hug.

He flipped a page and muttered something under his breath about the economy when Araire strolled into the room, humming a carefree tune, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. She was dressed in a pink chic two-piece outfit that spoke of high-end fashion and bold confidence. Her makeup was subtle but striking, her long dark hair curled perfectly at the ends, and her energy filled the room like a spark of electricity.

Senator Adeniyi looked up from his paper, adjusting his glasses.

“Where are you off to, dear?” he asked, his voice smooth and curious.

Araire grinned as she grabbed a croissant from the tray nearby. “I’m going shopping with the girls, Dad,” she said, twirling a car key in her fingers. Her voice was breezy, but her eyes betrayed a barely-contained excitement, sparkling like diamonds under the sun.

Senator Adeniyi studied her for a second. She was glowing. Too glowing.

“Shopping, hmm? Must be quite the sale to get you this animated.”

“Or maybe it’s just nice to have a life outside these four walls,” she teased, winking.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He picked it up and dialed quickly.

“Ayobami, where are you?”

The voice on the other end crackled, thick with Yoruba intonation. “I dey come, sir. I go dey there in ten minutes.”

“Good,” the senator said, nodding. “Don’t waste time.”

He ended the call and turned to his daughter. “Ayobami is on his way. You’re not going out without your driver. That’s final.”

Araire groaned and threw her head back. “Dad, come on. I’m not a child anymore. I can drive myself.”

Senator Adeniyi shook his head slowly. “I know you can. But it’s not about whether you can. It’s about should. You’re my only daughter, and this city is no place to play superhero. Ayobami will take you.”

Araire huffed and crossed her arms, her expression dramatic. “He better not try to lecture me the whole ride.”

Senator Adeniyi chuckled. “If he does, give it right back to him. You’ve never been one to keep quiet anyway. You're his boss. No matter how long the nose bride of worker is, who gives him job is still his job.”

She rolled her eyes and walked to the window, peeking outside every few seconds. Moments later, the bell rang. The senator rose from his chair and gave her a nod. “That must be him. Let’s go.”

They walked together to the door, where Ayobami stood in a crisp navy-blue uniform. His black shoes shone, and his cap was tilted just slightly, giving him a confident edge. His posture was straight, his expression neutral.

Senator Adeniyi handed him the car keys. “Ayobami, take good care of my daughter. Drive safely.”

“Yes sir,” Ayobami replied, bowing slightly. “Na my work be that.”

But as Araire stepped forward and caught sight of him, her expression soured.

She frowned. “Dad, no. I don’t want him to be my driver.”

Senator Adeniyi raised a brow. “Why not?”

“He’s rude and unprofessional,” she said, glaring at Ayobami. “He can’t even speak proper English. I’m not riding with someone who communicates like a conductor at Obalende park.”

Ayobami’s face remained still, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He spoke calmly, but his voice carried weight.

“Wetin dey worry this one?” he said, staring straight at her. “You think say because I be vulcanizer before, I no sabi drive? Madam, I go drive you well well—and I go make sure say you dey safe.”

Araire recoiled as if slapped. “Excuse me?”

Senator Adeniyi sighed, raising his hand. “Araire. That’s enough. Ayobami is capable, and he has a point. It’s unfair to look down on someone because of their background.”

Araire looked between them, visibly annoyed but forced to concede.

“Fine,” she muttered, brushing past Ayobami and heading to the car.

Ayobami opened the door for her and she slid in without a word. The air inside the vehicle was thick with tension. As the car rolled forward, the silence grew heavier, until Araire finally exploded.

“I’m telling you, all men are the same,” she said, crossing her legs and tossing her hair. “He-goats in fine suits. Their brains are wired to chase anything in a skirt and then dump her like yesterday’s newspaper.”

Ayobami glanced at her in the rearview mirror and smiled wryly. “Madam, you dey talk say men be he-goats. But wetin do some women wey dey use their sword-tongue to slice man heart, and dem go still expect make the man dey say thank you?”

Araire’s head snapped forward. “What did you just say?”

“I say some women sabi talk like blade—sharp for nothing. Dem go insult you, crush your ego, and still expect you to smile like mumu.”

“How dare you?” she spat.

Ayobami shrugged. “How dare me wetin? I no curse you. I just dey talk my mind. Unless, of course...you be one of dem?”

Her jaw tightened. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Just a glorified vulcanizer trying to sound deep. You know nothing about women—nothing about class, dignity, or respect.”

Ayobami gave a low chuckle. “And you—wey dey wear designer cloth and perfume wey pass my monthly salary—still dey talk like person wey character dey smell like soakaway.”

Her mouth fell open. For once, Araire had no comeback. She glared out the window, arms folded, lips pressed tight. The silence stretched once again—tense, almost unbearable.

Ayobami drove smoothly, occasionally glancing at her reflection in the mirror. He said nothing else, but his eyes seemed to speak volumes—about pride, about defiance, and something else. Something deeper.

Araire sat stiffly, fuming. But deep within, a seed of something unfamiliar had taken root. Nobody had ever dared to speak to her like that. Not in that raw, unfiltered way. Not without flinching or apologizing. And oddly, instead of hate, she felt… something dangerously close to fascination.

Who was this man? she wondered. What kind of driver talks like a philosopher and fights like a sparring partner?

There was silence, but her mind screamed with questions. Who was Ayobami before this? What pain carved that confidence into his voice? Why did his insults sting… but also stick like bubble gum?

She didn’t speak again. Not because she had nothing to say, but because for once, she wasn’t sure how to win.

And Ayobami? He simply drove—calm, focused, and secretly amused. Perhaps this was just the beginning.