Omojoro’s Mercedes was creeping through the dense market streets of Ajegunle one day when he started to make a left turn into a narrow road. Suddenly, a young man came out of the crowd, yelling that Omojoro had made an illegal turn. He was an agbero—a member of the transport workers’ union, whose official job is to act as an intermediary between bus drivers and their passengers. The agberos of the state transport union, who wore yellow-and-maroon reflector vests, were in open warfare with the agberos of the federal union, who wore white vests and black berets. This man wasn’t wearing a vest, but his swagger implied that the corner was under his personal control. He wanted money, on the pretext of helping Omojoro bribe the traffic police—he would keep part of it for himself, and the rest would go to his branch of the union local, one of fifty-seven in Lagos state. The agberos of a given zone have to generate a minimum of, say, thirty-five dollars a day for their local branch and the police. All this activity is technically illegal.
“Go to hell, I won’t deal with you,” Omojoro almost spat out the window. “You’re an agbero.”
The man glared and pointed. “You called me agbero because you don’t know me.”
“I don’t want to know you,” Omojoro said. “I respect the man in uniform.”
A traffic cop had come over to investigate the dispute. “I thank you for that statement,” he told Omojoro. “I am ready to settle with you.” They negotiated a fine down from fourteen dollars to three-fifty. Most people would have coöperated with the agbero, who always has a network of area boys in the vicinity, to vandalize the car until the driver pays up. Omojoro called the agbero’s bluff, having seen the traffic cop, who was forced to intervene, in order not to be reported up his chain of command for failing to take a bribe himself.