SURGE HOURS

Justice Faruck

Every day, by 4:30 p.m., I turn on all the apps—Uber, Bolt, Indrive, even Rida if network allows. I don’t wait to leave the office. Sometimes I accept a trip before I even sign out, just to stay ahead of surge traffic. My real job is in the civil service, Federal Ministry of Environment, tucked in a quiet block in Area 3. That one pays my dignity. This one pays my bills.

The salary enters late. The rent doesn’t wait. School fees are never one payment; they come like traffic—slow, sudden, and stressful. My wife does what she can. But it’s my face the kids look at when the cornflakes run out, not hers. So I drive. Every evening, every weekend. Abuja doesn’t care how tired you are.

That Thursday evening, my first ping came in just as I parked near Jabi Lake Mall—cash trip, Indrive.

Pickup: Beauty by Layo. Drop-off: Katampe Extension.

I didn’t think much of it. Until she entered.

She came in like she knew the car was hers—eyelashes heavy, waist snatched, wig laid like GTB carpet. She didn’t greet. Just plugged in her phone and said, “Abeg, Oga you get charger? iPhone.” I passed it to her. She was already on a call.

“Yes na, he say make I just order Uber. Him driver go pick me for gate. I swear, this one go settle me small. See as e soft.“

I kept my eyes on the road. I’d heard this script before.

The roads were mostly clear. That post-rush hour lull before the party crowd starts clogging the city. We passed Mabushi quietly, her voice the only thing in the air. She laughed. “You won’t believe—he even asked if I prefer dollars or naira. I just told him: ‘surprise me.‘”

I glanced at the rearview. She wasn’t talking to me.

Some of them—these night passengers—carry perfume like it’s armor. Her scent filled the car: sharp, sweet, fake expensive. Probably from Wuse Market, 2k tops. The kind you spray heavy when you’re pretending not to worry.

When we reached the estate in Katampe Extension, she told me to wait at the gate. “He said his driver will come collect me from here.“

I turned off the engine. She fixed her hair. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then five.

She dialed. First time, no answer.

The second time, “The number you are calling is switched off.“

Third time, she tried WhatsApp. One tick. No reply.

I didn’t say anything.

After ten minutes of pretending not to panic, she asked, “Oga, abeg, you fit follow me enter the estate small? Maybe I go see am for inside.“

I just looked at her. “Madam, you never pay me.”

She paused like she didn’t hear.

Then she tried to bargain.

“Just small ride. If I see am, him go give you double.”

I sighed. “If I enter there and nothing show, who go pay me?”

She looked away. For the first time since she entered the car, her mouth went quiet.

Before I could reply, my phone rang. My wife’s name flashed on the screen.

“Salamu Alaikum…….Hello?”

Her voice was tight. Shaky. “Musa—Musa, it’s Abdul. He fainted in school. They rushed him to the clinic near the house. Doctor say they need to move him to Garki Hospital. Come quick, please.“

My heart skipped. Subhanallahi Fainted? Abdul had only just started P1. He was barely six. Never sick. Never still, either.

“A wani Asibiti Kuke yanzun? I dey come,” I asked her in Hausa, she responded with the name of the health care there were at, the one opposite our street, and cut the call. My hand was already reaching for the gear. But as I turned the key, the fuel light blinked red. I knew what it meant. I had enough for maybe five more kilometers—not enough to get home, not enough to get to the hospital. That girl was my first ride of the day. I hadn’t made a kobo.

I turned to her. “Madam, abeg—my pikin no well. He’s admitted to the hospital I need to go. Just give me something for fuel.”

She looked at me blankly. Then laughed. “But I never see the person na. Dey patient small e go give me your money now—if you fit wait small…“

I gripped the steering wheel. My teeth clenched. My body was vibrating, not from anger, but from helplessness. This job—this life—left you one insult away from madness.

“Madam I no fit wait, my child’s health is at risk,” I said, more to myself than to her.

Then I did something I’d never done before.

I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked around, and opened the back door. “Madam, abeg. I no get fuel. I no get money. My pikin dey hospital. You go come down.”

Her mouth dropped. “Wait—oga are you chasing me?”

I didn’t answer. I just stood there, door open, eyes hard.

For a long second, she held my gaze, then scoffed and got out. She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t curse. She just adjusted her wig, pulled her small bag tighter, and walked off into the shadows of the gate like the ride never happened.

I got back in, praying the fuel would hold long enough to get me home. As I drove off, I didn’t look back.

The fuel light blinked again, like a tired eye.

City Gate was clogged. A line of red taillights stretched like a funeral procession. I coasted into it, foot barely on the pedal, afraid to waste fumes. The AC had been off for thirty minutes. My shirt was damp. My hands smelled of frustration.

The Corolla sighed at every inch forward. The traffic wasn’t moving—just shuffling. I wound down the window. The air outside was hot and heavy, smelling of exhaust, roasted maize, and tired people.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, counting: one thousand, two thousand, three. That’s how I kept myself calm when I wanted to scream.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Michael.

“Guy,” he answered on the second ring, voice groggy. “I dey sleep. Wetin happen?“

I swallowed hard. “Bro, sorry to wake you. I no even know where to start. See ehn, I just carry one girl from Jabi go Katampe—she say her guy go pay, but the guy ghost her. She no pay me. And now, Abdul fainted in school. My wife say dey wan rush am go Garki Hospital. I dey traffic, fuel don finish. I no know what to do.”

There was silence on the other end. Then a soft sigh.

“Omo… Musa, na wa oh. And this month never even reach half. I swear, I’m already owing POS woman. I buy fuel yesterday with borrowed money. If to say…“

His voice faded into background static. I didn’t blame him. Civil service was a joke with a punchline nobody laughed at. I stared out the window, watching hawkers weave between cars with Gala, Pure Water, phone chargers, prayers.

I felt something close to tears scratch my throat, but I swallowed it.

I scrolled to another number: Abubakar Uber. That was how I saved his name.

We met two months ago during a ride-sharing glitch—both of us sent to pick the same customer at the same time. Instead of fighting, we split suya, laughed about the algorithm, and added each other.

I tapped his name.

He answered like he was already in the middle of something.

“Boss! Musa the ghost driver! You vanish since na. How far?“

“Abu,” I said, voice low. “You dey drive now?”

“Mad, bro. I just drop one babe for Maitama. Central Park dey hot. Crowd full everywhere. I swear surge dey fry phone. 1.8x. Na who reach first go cash out.“

I hesitated. My eyes flicked to the blinking red icon on the dashboard. “I no get fuel.”

“Ehn?“

“I dey stranded. Picked one yeye girl, she no pay. Now fuel don finish, and dem just rush my pikin go hospital. I dey City Gate, stuck inside traffic. I no know if I go make am home.”

Abubakar’s voice changed.

“Guy. Say no more. Send your account.“

“Abu, I need like 20k. Just for fuel and small something for hand. I swear, once salary drop next week, I go run am back.”

“I don hear. Send am.”

I paused. “I fit get that amount now?”

He chuckled. “Omo, today na luck. I pick two politicians from the National Assembly to Sheraton. 10k cash, plus tips. I dey bless people today. Send am, Musa.“

My fingers shook as I typed. Seconds later, the alert came in. ₦30,000.00 received from Abubakar Uber.

I stared at the screen like it was holy scripture.

“Abu,” I said. “Nagode sossai, May Allah bless you.”

“Go fill tank. Then rush come Central Park. You fit still pick like four rides before midnight. Don’t waste this night.”

Call ended.

I eased the Corolla out of the queue and took a sharp detour through the shoulder. Some drivers cursed, honked. I didn’t care. My child was in a hospital bed. A fake slay queen had wasted my time. But my friend—another driver like me—had just saved my night.

At the filling station before the Dantata bridge, the pump attendant asked, “How much?“

I said, “Full tank.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Full?“

“For the first time in three weeks,” I replied.

The nozzle hissed, and I watched the numbers climb. 3,000. 7,500. 9,800. The gauge crept back from empty, slowly filling my chest with breath again.

Inside the car, I sat still. Hands on the wheel. The city hadn’t changed. The traffic was still nonsense. The politics was still broken. My job still useless. But for one moment, I had enough fuel. Enough direction. Enough help to keep going.

As I pulled away from the pump, I dialed my wife. Her voice came on after two rings, tired but calmer.

“A ina kake yanzun?” she asked.

“Just finish buy fuel. Ga ni nan a hanya ina zuwa—na one girl delay me. She no pay for ride. I run out of fuel. Abu just help me now. I dey move.”

She paused.

“Musa, don’t stress. The doctor say Abdul is stable now. They gave him something for the fainting. Na sugar drop. He does not need to go to the hospital again. He even dey eat biscuit as I dey talk to you.”

I closed my eyes and let the breath escape slow. “Alhamdulillah,” I whispered.

“Take your time,” she added. “If you fit still do one or two rides, do. No worry yourself come now. We go manage.“

My chest loosened like a tight belt had just snapped off.

We said our salams. I dropped the phone in the cup holder and stared out at the evening spilling into night. The wind felt less hot. I pressed the clutch, found gear, and took the U-turn just after the Shoprite/Navarre gateway. The one that curved sharp like a question mark, back toward town.

The Corolla glided.

I drove past City gate, past Wuse, headlights cutting clean through the dark. At the edge of Zone 4, my phones went crazy. Four apps, beeping like a chorus.

Indrive: surge active.

Uber: trip request (₦8,000)

Bolt: trip near you (₦6,200)

Rida: bid active – user offered ₦10,500.

I laughed—a dry, grateful sound. This was the first time in weeks I was the one doing the choosing.

By the time I reached Central Park, the place was packed. Not just customers—drivers too. Bolt stickers. Uber. Green Indrive logos glowing on windshields. Everyone leaning on cars, checking phones, hustling for high bids.

I inched into a corner and double-parked.

My phone beeped again.

Rida: user requesting airport drop-off. Offer: ₦20,000.

My eyes widened.

It wasn’t from the Central Park crowd. The pin dropped somewhere in Wuse 2. I checked the user: Adeolu O., 4.9-star rating. No fuss. No calls. Just a clean request.

I tapped Accept.

The route lit up. Pickup in 7 minutes. I could still be home by midnight.

I eased out of Central Park, ignoring the guy who waved at me with a folded ₦500 note in his hand.

“Airport trip don land,” I muttered, smiling.

The roads opened up once I left the chaos behind. From the side mirror, I watched the city soften—its shadows spreading across streetlights, its wealth tucked into corners. The same Abuja where ministers lived like royalty and drivers begged for fuel. But tonight, it was tilting back in my favour.

The pickup point was one of those gated short-let apartments behind H-Medix. Quiet, well-lit. A security man stood near the gate, holding a phone.

“Oga Uber?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He waved to someone inside. A tall man emerged, wheeling a black suitcase. Shirt crisp. Sneakers clean. He slid into the back seat like he’d done it a hundred times.

“A good evening, my brother,” he said. His voice had Lagos in it.

“Evening sir. You ready?”

“All set. Let’s beat the traffic.“

He didn’t talk much after that. Just scrolled through his phone and occasionally looked out the window.

On our way to the airport, I rolled the windows up and turned on the AC. The chill air filled the silence between us. Mr. Adeolu sat quietly for a while, scrolling through his phone. Then his first call came in.

“Egbon mi, I don send the draft. Just check your mail… No wahala, na Monday we go sit down.” His tone was brisk, confident. A man used to closing deals with words.

Over the next ten minutes, he took three more calls. One was about a land document, another about a government contract. The last one was a loud laugh followed by a sharp comment about a senator’s latest blunder.

“Politics na show,” he said aloud after the call, not really to me but into the space between us.

“Yes sir,” I replied, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

He leaned forward slightly. “You from Abuja?”

“No sir. I dey stay here now, but originally from Niger state.”

He nodded. “How long you don dey do this Uber thing?”

“Almost three years now. After civil service stop making sense.”

He laughed. “Join the club.”

A brief silence stretched between us before he asked, “You don marry?”

“Yes sir. Four children. One even scare me today. Na why I delay before I pick you.”

“Oh?” His voice shifted slightly, more curious now.

I told him—summarized the chaos. The fainting call from school. My panic. The girl who scammed me. How my fuel finished. How a fellow driver sent me money. I left out nothing.

For a moment, there was only the sound of tyres humming over tar and the distant noise of an okada weaving through traffic.

He whistled. “Wetin una dey face ehn. This city hard, wallahi.”

“E no easy, sir. But God dey.”

He nodded again, then looked out the window.

After a while, he said, “You ever been to Lagos?”

“Only once. During NYSC. But never as a driver.”

“Hmm. If you ever come, call me. Let me show you how boys hustle with AC in the car and madness outside. I go even help you get jobs. I know people. But here in Abuja, anytime I dey around, you go be my driver.”

My mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate.”

We exchanged numbers before we reached the airport gate. I pulled up beside the departures terminal. He didn’t rush. Just stepped out slowly, adjusted his sleeves, and turned back to me.

“Can you call me your bank details?”

“Yes sir.” I rattled off the number. He typed it casually into his phone and said, “Thanks for the ride.”

Then he wheeled his suitcase and disappeared into the bright glass doors of the airport.

I stayed parked there a while, just letting the cool air brush my face.

Then my phone buzzed.

₦200,000.00 credit alert from Mr. Adeolu Oladipo.

I froze.

My first instinct was that it was a mistake. Maybe he meant to type ₦20,000 and added an extra zero.

My hands were trembling as I tapped his number.

He picked on the first ring.

“Hello, my brother,” he said.

“Good evening sir. I just see alert now. I think maybe you make mistake…”

“What alert?”

“You send ₦200,000. I believe na ₦20,000 for the airport trip you wan send.”

He chuckled. “No be mistake.”

I went quiet.

“Look, Musa,” he said, “sometimes, God position people for you to bless. Today na your turn. I hear everything you talk inside that car. You’re not lazy. You’re just in a hard country. That 200k? Take am. Use am for your family. Buy your son something sweet. Take your wife out. Don’t argue.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“You dey hear me?”

“Yes sir,” I managed. “I hear. I just… I don’t even know wetin to say.”

“No talk anything. Just drive safe.”

He ended the call.

I sat back in the car, still gripping the phone, as if the alert might disappear if I let go.

Out the window, planes cut through the night sky. Their lights blinked steadily, like heartbeats.

The city was still noisy. Still unfair. Still unsure. But for once, it gave something back.

I turned on the ignition and started the drive back home—feeling, for the first time in a long time, like maybe this road wasn’t always one-way pain. Maybe, just maybe, kindness could still surprise you in the middle of everything.

And maybe not all passengers were just passengers.

Some were angels in disguise.