Memoirs of a Bolt Guy: The Night I Became Somebody’s Guardian Angel

By Ghanaman

It’s been months since we crossed paths on these streets. I had to take some time off to handle some pressing personal issues. But now that I’m back, let’s hope it stays this way for a very long time.

Let’s dive right in. No time.

Thursday nights are not usually my thing. I don’t expect much from them. Just enough to offset a few bills like my daily contribution plus small chop-chop. Na that motivation dey make me wheel out on such days.

My first ride came at about 8:15 pm, and it was nothing special. But the second one? That one carry story.

I got an order from somewhere in GRA. The conversation over the phone was brief; the client agreed to the price and told me to come immediately. Luckily, I was just around the corner. Within seconds, I picked him up. It was a short trip within the same GRA, and I paused to confirm he heard the price I mentioned earlier. He nodded, but he was acting weird. He was erratic, incoherent, and smelling of alcohol.

I shrugged it off and headed to the location he gave me. When we got there, he sent ₦6,000 instead of the ₦4,000 we agreed. Na this kind thing dey give us joy.

His name was Udeme.

He told me to wait so we could head to his house in Mercyland afterward. Of course, I waited. In no time, he returned to the car, but the conversation still wasn’t connecting, and the guy clearly wasn’t himself.

When we got to his Mercyland location, Udeme told me to wait again because we would be heading back to GRA. I no even mind. Nothing concern agbero with overload.

Just like earlier, he didn’t waste time returning to the car. But before I drove off, I noticed someone walking towards us from the same compound. I stepped out to meet him.

He begged me not to take Udeme back, because they’d been searching for him since the previous day. That was how I met Johnson, the security man. He handed me the phone to speak with a Mr. Bassey, who happened to be Udeme’s father. After a brief explanation, he asked me to reverse and drive into the compound so Udeme could be restrained.

Meanwhile, my guy was sitting calmly in the front seat, totally unaware we were plotting outside. But as soon as I turned the car towards the gate, he opened the door and jumped out, walking straight toward the main road.

I informed his father, and he begged me to go after him. Na so my work begin enter another level, oo.

I drove out, caught up with Udeme just as he was about to board a Keke, and managed to convince him to return to the car. I gave my number to Johnson for the father.

As we drove, Mr. Bassey explained the situation: Udeme had just returned from abroad but was battling alcohol addiction. He was gifted a brand-new car, but within a week, nobody knew where the car was again. The boy looked fresh, early twenties, and clearly from a wealthy home.

Mr. Bassey, who was in Abuja, begged me to keep an eye on his son, and, if possible, bring him home. He promised to settle the bills. He believed Udeme was under some kind of spiritual attack.

I told him to message me on WhatsApp so we wouldn’t raise suspicion, because I noticed Udeme had opened his Bolt app to request another ride. I ended the call quickly and engaged him with small conversation. It worked and he invited me for a drink at his hotel’s poolside.

We got there. He ordered shots of whiskey; I took a bottle of Desperado, make I dey sip small-small and dey gist am. I updated his father with pictures and messages. Shot after shot, until he tried to stand up, staggered, and passed out on the floor.

I called the barman, explained the situation, and asked the father to send money to settle the bill so they could help me carry his son to the car. He did, immediately.

At the house, the security men opened the gate with remote (see doings o!). The three of us carried Udeme inside. His thumbprint opened the door (big boy levels). We took him to his room, put on the AC, and covered him with a duvet.

Mr. Bassey sent me money for my trouble and thanked me repeatedly.

Nothing left to do but head home. I drove to a suya joint, bought two grilled chicken laps, stopped at a supermarket for two bottles of my favourite yogurt, and faced the road to my house.

Life no suppose hard, jor.

Note: These are all true stories. Names and locations in Port Harcourt have been changed to protect the individuals in the stories