The app pinged at 2:17 a.m. on the Third Mainland stretch—same pickup spot as last week, same drop-off in Ikeja, same passenger name: A. Bello. You’ve driven that ghost ride four times now. Each time the rear door opens before you even stop fully, like someone was already waiting inside the shadow.
Tonight the rain is thin and greasy, smearing the windshield like old oil.
You smell it before you see him slide in: wet laterite, the kind that stains graves red. He drops three folded ₦1,000 notes into the cup holder. The ink on them looks wrong—blurred, like they spent years pressed against damp earth.
“Evening, driver,” he says. Voice soft, polite, the way people talk when they’re trying not to wake something. You glance in the mirror. His face is there, but the edges don’t quite match the headrest. Too still. Like a photo someone forgot to crop.
You pull off. The radio hisses white noise even though it’s off. After the second bridge he speaks again.
“You remember me?”
You nod once. Lying feels heavier than usual tonight.
“Good. Most forget by the third ride.” He leans forward just enough that you feel the air move. “I like consistency.”
The notes in the cup holder are curling at the corners now, edges darkening. You can smell soil stronger—fresh-turned, almost sweet. Your throat closes a little.
At the toll gate the attendant waves you through without looking up. No beep, no ticket. Just the arm lifting like it was already expecting you.
“You ever wonder,” he says, “why the app never asks for rating after I ride?”
You grip the wheel tighter. Knuckles pale under the dashboard glow.
“Because I always pay full fare.” He taps one of the notes. It makes a small wet sound against the plastic. “And because the trip isn’t really ending.”
You pass the same uncompleted building you always pass—the one with rebar fingers reaching into the sky. Tonight there are more floors than last time. Or maybe you’re just counting wrong.
He sighs, almost fond. “You drive very carefully, Dele. Like someone who knows what happens if you crash with a full passenger.”
Your name isn’t Dele.
You check the mirror again. The man is still there, but now you see the seatbelt is fastened across empty air.
No, not empty. There’s a shape—your shape—slumped against the window, head tilted at the wrong angle, eyes open and reflecting red brake lights that aren’t on.
The road ahead is the same stretch of Third Mainland you’ve been on for weeks. Same lights, same rain. Only now the app screen is dark except for one line:
Ride completed. Passenger rating you 5 stars.
The back seat is quiet.
You keep driving anyway.
Because stopping would mean admitting you’re the one who never got out.
