Honest Mechanic

Chapter 2: Life Moves On

Lagos did not pause when I left. The city churned on, its million engines humming, its horns blaring, its people pressing forward as though nothing had changed. But for Azeez, my departure left a silence only he felt.

Under the scorching afternoon sun, Azeez worked beneath a flimsy zinc roof he had nailed together by hand. He called it "Oluwa Workshop," painted in shaky blue letters on an old wooden board. A small, uneven cement slab served as his main floor. Tools hung on rusty nails hammered into crooked bamboo poles, and an old fan creaked beside a single bulb that flickered more often than it shone.

He specialized in kekes and motorcycles now — the vehicles of the people, as he called them.

Azeez’s day started at dawn. He would light a small stove to boil water for tea, then warm some leftover yam or bread. His wife, Aminat, would often sit by the window, staring out into the morning haze with eyes full of unanswered questions. Their children, Zainab and Habeeb, would prepare for school in faded uniforms.

“Papa, can we pay for excursion this term?” Zainab asked one morning, her voice hopeful.

Azeez paused, his hand gripping the kettle too tightly. He looked into her bright, expectant eyes and forced a smile.

“Insha’Allah, my dear. We go try,” he said, though he knew deep inside that even the simplest pleasures were luxuries they could not afford.

As soon as the children left, Aminat would often start.

“Azeez, you dey hear say Musa don buy generator? Na your mate o! Dem dey fix big men car, dem dey chop better money. But you — always holy holy!”

Azeez would sigh, looking at his cracked hands.

“Aminat, I no go use lie train these children. God go provide.”

She would turn away, her shoulders trembling. Some days she wept openly, some days she fell silent. Each tear was a small storm in their tiny room.

Customers trickled into Oluwa Workshop slowly. Many were local keke riders — rough but friendly men who respected Azeez’s honesty even if they grumbled about his prices.

One morning, a keke rider named Shola arrived in a panic.

“Baba Azeez! My engine don die o! Abeg help me!”

Azeez examined the small, battered engine carefully, checking each gasket, each wire. He worked as though it was a living being, his head close, his eyes focused.

“It’s only the carburetor clogging,” Azeez finally announced.

“Na small thing. I go clean am. No need buy new one.”

Shola fell to his knees in relief.

“Ah! You be correct man. God go bless you!”

But the reality remained: honest work meant smaller profits.

At night, Azeez returned home with barely enough to buy half measure of garri. The children would eat first. Aminat would always say she wasn’t hungry, but her eyes betrayed her hunger.

Meanwhile, in Abuja, my own life was transforming in ways I never imagined.

The Ministry of Transportation was a fortress of glass, marble, and polished steel. Inside, everything gleamed: the conference rooms with leather chairs, the corridors lined with framed photos of past ministers, the scent of imported air fresheners that barely masked the undercurrent of corruption.

I began as Assistant Project Director for Urban Mobility. My first months were filled with small administrative tasks: preparing feasibility reports, overseeing pilot programs for rural road upgrades.

I moved into a modest government apartment in Gwarinpa. I furnished it with my first real salary: a mattress that wasn’t threadbare, a small fridge, a wooden dining table. At night, I sat on my balcony with a steaming mug of tea, listening to Abuja’s quieter, more restrained city sounds.

I often thought of Azeez. His laugh, his calloused hands, the spanner keychain he gave me — all reminders that even in this shining city, my heart must stay grounded.

For the first few years, I called Azeez almost every month.

“Engineer! How Abuja?” he would ask, his voice bright.

I would tell him about government meetings, policy debates, and the occasional small victory.

“How workshop?” I’d ask in return.

“We dey push. Na small small,” he would always say.

But as my responsibilities grew, the calls became less frequent. Sometimes I would look at my phone and tell myself, "Tomorrow I will call Azeez." But tomorrow kept drifting further away.

During those years, I attended international conferences in Addis Ababa, Nairobi, even London. I met ministers and presidents. I appeared in newspapers, always described as “the promising young technocrat.”

Yet at night, after the applause faded, I felt an emptiness that not even the biggest accolades could fill.

Back in Lagos, Azeez’s workshop faced relentless challenges.

One day, Aminat fell ill. They needed hospital tests, and the doctor’s bills were beyond what Azeez could imagine.

In desperation, he sold his beloved Suzuki motorcycle. That bike had been his companion for years, ferrying him through rain and Lagos gridlock. He walked home after the sale, pushing his toolbox in a borrowed wheelbarrow.

When Aminat saw him without the bike, she wept uncontrollably. But she also hugged him that night, realizing perhaps for the first time the true cost of his integrity.

Their son, Habeeb, had to leave private coaching classes. He started hawking sachet water in the evenings to contribute. Zainab, once a bright-eyed dreamer, became quiet, her grades slipping.

Despite this, Azeez refused every shady offer. Fake part suppliers offered quick money, politicians sought to use his workshop as a front — he refused all. His apprentices sometimes left in frustration, calling him "old school" and "broke saint."

One evening, as Azeez closed the workshop, a young boy approached him breathlessly with a dusty envelope.

“Oga mechanic! Dem say make I give you.”

Azeez opened it cautiously. Inside was a formal letter from a new transport union in Surulere. They needed a consultant to help maintain their growing fleet of kekes.

A modest contract, but a lifeline.

That night, for the first time in months, Azeez bought bread, eggs, and even a small bottle of malt. At dinner, the children laughed as he described his future plans.

“We go fix not just the keke,” he said, “we go fix the minds of the riders. Dem no go dey cheat passengers again if their engines dey okay.”

Aminat watched him with a small, relieved smile. It was not wealth, but it was dignity.

Meanwhile, I was being groomed to take over major projects. One Friday evening, I attended a policy dinner. Surrounded by officials with crisp agbadas and politicians with heavy perfumes, I laughed politely at jokes I did not find funny.

Suddenly, my mind wandered. I remembered the old oil drum where Azeez and I had eaten akara. I saw his weathered hands guiding mine over an injector.

That weekend, I made a decision. I booked a flight to Lagos.

When I arrived unannounced at Oluwa Workshop, Azeez was bent over a keke carburetor. His back seemed even more hunched now, hair more salt than pepper.

When he looked up and saw me, he froze.

“Engineer!” he finally shouted, throwing his rag aside and hugging me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

I spent that afternoon watching him work. We shared roasted plantain and groundnut from a roadside seller. He showed me his workshop ledger — each line carefully written, each expense tracked with obsessive honesty.

I noticed his cracked glasses. Without thinking, I promised to get him a new pair. He refused at first, but I insisted.

We talked until twilight. I shared stories of Abuja — the smooth conference halls, the quiet corridors of power, the whispered deals. He listened, his eyes sometimes distant, sometimes twinkling at my jokes.

When I finally told him I was leaving for a higher post — one that could shape national policy — he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Tunde… fight for the small people,” he said. “Don’t let them turn you. Remember Lagos. Remember this workshop.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing into my chest.

That night, I stayed in a small guest house nearby. I could not sleep. I stood by the window, looking at the flickering city lights. In the distant alleys, I could hear music — someone playing Fela Kuti, the sound mingling with the occasional danfo horn.

I imagined Azeez lying on his thin mattress, his family finally sleeping peacefully after a rare dinner of full bellies. I thought of Zainab, still dreaming of excursions, and Habeeb, his hands already rough from selling water.

I wanted to do more than promises. I wanted to fix something real, something bigger than a single engine or a single contract.

That night, I wrote another entry in my journal:

“Azeez remains the true minister, even if no one elects him. His ministry is honesty. I must build my own ministry on his foundation.”

In the morning, I returned to the workshop one last time.

Azeez was already there, carefully arranging tools in a battered wooden box.

When he saw me, he smiled and handed me a small, oily envelope.

“Na small thing,” he said.

Inside was a key — a spare key to the workshop.

“If Abuja too heavy, come back. We go always get space for you.”

We embraced for a long time, both of us silent. Words had run out.

I stepped into a taxi as the sun rose over Lagos, painting the sky in gentle pink and orange. Through the window, I saw Azeez wave, then turn to help an early keke rider, already lost in the music of his work.

As we drove away, the scent of petrol and roasted corn drifted in the morning breeze, wrapping around me like a final blessing.

The journey to Abuja took almost ten hours by road. I chose not to fly this time — I wanted to feel Nigeria's bones beneath my seat.

We passed red, dusty villages where children waved at every vehicle, small markets alive with the smell of fried plantain and burning firewood. The road snaked past lonely palm trees and endless fields, each stretch whispering stories of neglect and forgotten dreams.

Inside the bus, I held my journal tight. The spanner keychain from Azeez hung from my backpack, clinking gently each time the bus hit a pothole.

As we approached Abuja, the road widened, the air felt lighter, and the horizon shimmered with a quiet dignity Lagos rarely offered. Here, things moved slower. The city looked like a well-rehearsed stage play — buildings perfectly spaced, manicured lawns, large government plazas.

My new office was inside a vast ministry complex. Marble floors reflected my unsure steps, and portraits of past ministers stared down at me, their eyes full of warnings and forgotten promises.

In my first few weeks, I learned quickly that Abuja’s battles weren’t fought with hammers or wrenches, but with memos, backroom negotiations, and coded threats hidden in formal letters.

I was tasked with drafting a new urban transport framework for mid-sized cities, including Ilorin and Owerri. It sounded like progress, but the deeper I went, the more I discovered the rot underneath.

The supply chain for buses and road materials was controlled by a handful of powerful contractors — each one with deep ties to the ruling elites. They submitted inflated budgets, installed substandard parts, and bribed auditors to keep quiet.

One day, during a review meeting, a senior official leaned in close to me, his breath heavy with the smell of bitter kola.

“Look, my son,” he said softly. “You don’t fight the river. You learn to swim in it. That’s how we survive here.”

I nodded politely, but inside, I felt sick. That night, I sat alone in my small apartment, staring at the city lights outside. I remembered Azeez’s hands guiding mine, his voice saying:

“Engine no be egg. You have to be bold, but precise. Heart strong, hand soft.”

I knew I could not bend. I started drafting proposals that included stricter checks, third-party evaluations, and transparent procurement plans.

But each time I submitted my drafts, they came back redlined. Meetings were postponed. Invitations to social gatherings stopped. The silence felt louder than any Lagos traffic.

In Abuja, I was alone most evenings. Unlike Lagos, where neighbors played Fuji music late into the night and shared bowls of pepper soup, Abuja’s quiet felt like a sterile operating theater.

I cooked simple meals — rice and beans, sometimes egusi — and played old Highlife records on my small speaker.

When I felt especially lonely, I called Azeez. But the calls grew shorter, more strained.

One night, I dialed his number. After several rings, Aminat picked up.

“Engineer… good evening,” she said softly.

“Good evening, Madam. Please, is Azeez around?”

She hesitated.

“He dey sleep. Work don tire am,” she finally said. Her voice was lined with exhaustion, yet I sensed a quiet pride hidden underneath.

I thanked her and ended the call, my heart heavy.

While I battled policy demons, Azeez was creating small revolutions in Lagos, one keke at a time.

His consultancy with the Surulere Keke Union slowly stabilized. Riders began to trust him, knowing he wouldn’t overcharge them or install fake parts. His honesty spread like quiet wildfire.

One keke rider, Johnbull, once told him:

“Oga Azeez, since you dey work my keke, I dey save money pass before. My madam even dey smile now.”

Azeez would laugh, tapping Johnbull’s shoulder.

“Better engine, better home, my brother.”

He also began mentoring a new generation of apprentices. Among them was a boy named Tope, barely sixteen, who had run away from a violent uncle.

Tope idolized Azeez. Every morning, he arrived before sunrise, sweeping the workshop floor, arranging tools, and boiling water for tea.

“Azeez Baba, one day I go become big mechanic like you,” he would say proudly.

Azeez always corrected him gently.

“No be big mechanic. Be honest mechanic. Big go come later.”

Those words began to shape Tope’s life and the lives of others who watched silently from the sidelines.

One stormy night, heavy rains pounded Lagos. Thunder rattled windows, and lightning turned the streets into ghostly corridors.

Azeez stayed late at the workshop, repairing a keke for a rider desperate to work early the next morning.

When he finally packed up, the streets were flooded. He waded through knee-deep water, carrying his toolbox on his head like a market woman with wares.

As he arrived home soaked and shivering, Aminat burst into tears.

“Why, Azeez? Why you dey kill yourself?” she cried, clutching his wet shirt.

He sat down heavily on the wooden chair, water pooling around his feet. He looked at her, his eyes tired but still kind.

“If I no do am, that boy no go chop tomorrow,” he said simply.

Aminat knelt beside him, resting her head on his knee. In that moment, her anger turned into a quiet surrender, a fragile truce between her fears and his unyielding heart.

In Abuja, my proposals continued to fail. One evening, a senior colleague invited me for drinks.

“Look, Tunde,” he said, swirling his whiskey. “You’re a bright young man. You have potential. But if you keep insisting on this your moral crusade, you’ll lose everything. No one will remember you.”

I listened silently, watching condensation slide down my glass.

Later that night, I sat at my desk, flipping through old journal entries. My eyes fell on a note from years before:

“If Lagos is a forest, Azeez is a lone iroko tree — unbending even when the wind screams.”

I realized I had two options: join the silent crowd, or stand like Azeez, alone if necessary.

The next morning, I submitted a final revised framework proposal, including an open bidding clause and severe penalties for contract inflation. I expected it to be torn apart again.

Instead, I was summoned to a closed-door meeting. Inside were two senior directors and the Permanent Secretary.

For the first few minutes, no one spoke. Then, the Secretary leaned forward, his fingers drumming slowly.

“Are you prepared to stand by this?” he asked.

I felt the room close in. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Then, a memory of Azeez’s calm face floated into my mind.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

A long silence. Then, to my shock, the Secretary gave a small, approving nod.

“Then we will present it to the Minister,” he said.

Weeks later, after numerous revisions and political maneuverings, the proposal was finally approved.

A letter arrived at my office, formally appointing me as Project Lead for the new National Urban Transport Reform Program.

I clutched the letter, almost unable to believe it. My hands trembled.

That night, for the first time in months, I called Azeez.

When he picked up, his voice was weak but warm.

“Engineer! Long time o!”

I told him everything — the struggles, the threats, the unexpected approval.

He listened in silence, then burst into loud laughter.

“You do am! Ah! You dey make me proud, Tunde!”

I heard Aminat in the background, laughing too. For a moment, I felt as if I were back under the zinc roof in Lagos, sharing groundnut and small jokes.

Before hanging up, Azeez said softly,

“Na your fight now. Me, I don lay the foundation for you.”

On the morning I officially assumed my new role, I stood before my small mirror, adjusting my tie. The tie felt tight, like a chain around my neck.

I glanced at the spanner keychain on my table. Picking it up, I squeezed it hard.

As I stepped into my office later, cameras flashed, colleagues clapped, and journalists shouted questions.

But in my mind, I heard only one voice:

“Dream without honesty na just sweet lie.”

In Lagos, Azeez also began his day. The sun rose over Oshodi, turning the corrugated roofs into rivers of molten gold.

Azeez arranged his tools slowly, humming an old Fuji tune. Tope arrived early, beaming.

“Baba! We get new keke today!” Tope announced proudly.

Azeez laughed, tossing him a rag.

“Start work, you this small troublemaker!”

Aminat stood by the door of their small house, watching them with a fragile peace in her eyes.

She knew they were still poor. The children still lacked many things. But something had shifted — a quiet respect from neighbors, a new flow of keke riders, small blessings that only the patient heart could see.

Later that day, Tope found a small package hidden under Azeez’s workbench. It was addressed simply: "For Tunde."

Inside was a photograph — the two of us sitting on the oil drum at Supreme Motors, our clothes dirty but our faces lit with laughter.

On the back, Azeez had scribbled in careful handwriting:

“When engine spoil, you fit change am. When heart spoil, you go fit change am? Stay honest.”

Tope asked, “Baba, who be this?”

Azeez took the photo, his fingers tracing my face gently.

“My brother. My engineer. Him dey fight for us now.”

As the day faded, I sat alone in my Abuja office. The city lights blinked like distant stars. I closed my eyes and imagined Lagos: the crowded markets, the roar of motorcycles, Azeez’s gentle laugh echoing in the night.

I knew our paths would cross again. Destiny was still threading our stories together in ways I couldn’t yet understand.

For now, we moved on. Both of us, in our separate worlds, carrying each other’s spirit forward — one fixing engines, the other fixing policies — both bound by an unbreakable covenant of honesty.