The Senator's Driver

From Scrapyard To Salary

The morning sun cast its golden rays over the bustling city of Lagos, painting the crowded streets and market stalls in hues of amber and gold. The air was thick with the scent of roasted corn, exhaust fumes, and something faintly floral wafting from a roadside vendor’s stall. The symphony of Lagos life played on—horns honking in disharmony, hawkers shouting prices, radios blaring fuji music, and the ever-present wail of sirens weaving through traffic.

Amidst the orchestrated chaos, a black Prado Jeep glided through the roads with ease. Behind the wheel sat Senator William Adeniyi, dressed crisply in a white agbada and a red cap that rested regally on his head. The man exuded authority. With his broad shoulders, neatly trimmed beard peppered with grey, and eyes that seemed to scan everything and miss nothing, Senator Adeniyi looked every bit the seasoned politician he was.

Beside him, his daughter Araire Adeniyi radiated youthful elegance. The morning sun streamed through the windshield and danced across her face, highlighting the soft contours of her cheekbones and the smooth arc of her jawline. Her dark, lustrous hair cascaded down her back like silk in motion, and her lips—painted a daring shade of crimson—curved into a faint, amused smile.

“Dad,” she said, glancing out the window at a passing danfo bus packed to the brim, “You really gave all the workers the day off? Even the driver?”

Senator Adeniyi chuckled. “Even the driver. Sometimes, everyone deserves a rest. Besides, driving with you reminds me of the old days, before all the politics and drama.”

Araire smirked. “You mean before you became a senator and got too important for morning drives?”

He laughed, the deep, warm kind of laugh that made people feel at ease. “Busted!”

Their pleasant ride was suddenly interrupted by a sharp, startling pop.

“Ah!” Araire exclaimed, gripping the seat as the vehicle jolted slightly to the side.

Senator Adeniyi’s hands stayed firm on the wheel, his reflexes impeccable. He steered the SUV to a halt by the roadside, where a cluster of mechanic sheds and kiosks lined the street like forgotten relics.

“Seriously?” Araire groaned, pulling down her sunglasses to peer at the front tire. “A flat tire? This is what happens when you give the driver a day off.”

Senator Adeniyi unbuckled his seatbelt. “It’s not a crisis, darling. Just a little hiccup.”

“I knew we should’ve gone to Lekki Auto Hub instead,” she muttered, folding her arms.

With a casual smile, the Senator pointed down the road. “There’s a vulcanizer just ahead. He’ll fix it in no time.”

Araire gasped in horror. “That dirty man under the tree? Dad, no! What if someone sees you? Imagine the blogs tomorrow: ‘Distinguished Senator Spotted at Local Tyre Shed!’ Not exactly great optics, Dad.”

“Optics won’t fix our tire, daughter” Senator Adeniyi said dryly. “Besides, he’s been here for years. Knows what he’s doing.”

“Knows how to attract germs,” Araire retorted, recoiling as they neared the shed.

The vulcanizer, a stout young man with broad shoulders, greasy overalls, and a thick black beard, was crouched beside another vehicle. He straightened at their approach, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days.

“Ah! Welcome, my Senator!” he boomed in a strong baritone. “Wetin happen, sir?”

“Flat tire,” the Senator replied, gesturing toward the SUV. “Can you handle it?”

“Sharp sharp,” the vulcanizer nodded with a toothy grin. “Na small thing be that.”

As he set to work, Araire stood apart, arms folded like a queen disapproving of her subjects. Her nose wrinkled as she eyed the tools, the cluttered shed, and the man’s grease-streaked shirt.

“This place looks like a scrapyard,” she muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “If any of Dad’s political rivals see us here, they’ll think he’s gone bankrupt.”

The vulcanizer looked up sharply, his smile fading. “Madam, you get problem with my shop?”

Araire gave a sweet but condescending smile. “Oh no, not at all. I just… didn’t realize professional service centers now come with mud floors and no receptionist.”

The vulcanizer raised an eyebrow. “I be mechanic, no be fashion designer. Na tire you want fix, abi you dey find spa treatment?”

Senator Adeniyi laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Don’t mind her my daughter. She’s just spoiled.”

“Ah, no vex,” Ayobami said with mock seriousness. “Make I no stain her princess dress with my ‘unprofessional’ hands.”

Araire turned her face, annoyed. “Dad, seriously, we can afford better. This guy looks like he slept in a toolbox.”

Ayobami stood, brushing off his hands. “I be roadside vulcanizer, yes. But I sabi my work. I get certificate for training from TAFE. Make I bring am show you?”

Senator Adeniyi raised his hand calmly. “No need, my friend. I trust you.”

As Ayobami finished, the Senator turned to him thoughtfully. “Ayobami, how long have you been doing this?”

“Ten years, sir. Started since I be apprentice under Baba Kamoru. This my hustle. Rain or sun, I dey here.”

There was a pause, then the Senator spoke again. “You know, my daughter is of age. She needs a reliable driver—someone trustworthy, humble, and street-smart. How would you like a job?”

Ayobami blinked. “Job?” He looked around, as if the words needed help settling in. “As driver? For this fine madam? Me?”

“I’ll pay you ₦300,000 monthly. Full benefits. And you don’t need to bring anything. Uniform, food, lodging—everything will be sorted.”

“JESU!” Ayobami shouted, nearly dropping the wrench in his hand. “Oga, you dey serious? 300k? Omo, na like say God just land from heaven drop blessing for my head!”

Araire, who was already in the car now, honked impatiently, wondering what her father was still discussing with the “greaseball.”

“I no go disappoint you, sir!” Ayobami gushed. “I fit drive day or night, rain or sun! Na better job be this! Oga, I go carry your daughter like say na governor pikin!”

Senator Adeniyi smiled and clapped him on the back. “Good. Be ready tomorrow morning. Someone will come for you.”

Ayobami saluted in excitement. “Yes sir! Thank you sir! God go bless you, sir!”

Araire sounded the horn again, this time more furiously. The Senator raised a calming hand. “I’m coming, Araire!”

He returned to the SUV and opened the door.

“What on earth were you doing back there, Dad?” she asked, annoyed.

Senator Adeniyi settled into the seat, a satisfied look on his face. “I'm just reshaping someone’s destiny.”

“Ugh. Must you always talk like a Nollywood pastor?”

He chuckled, started the car, and glanced in the rearview mirror, where Ayobami was still doing a happy dance. “You never know, my dear. The person you mock today may be the one holding your future tomorrow.”