There are two kinds of people in a big city. Those who say they are not afraid of traffic, and those who have met it. This guide is a fictional account of one morning drive, written for anyone who has ever left home at 6 a.m. to arrive at work at 10.

The hero of our story is Tunde, a cheerful driver in a small blue car, and his three passengers, each of whom believes they are a navigation expert.

Rule One: Leave Early, Then Leave Earlier

Tunde woke at 5 a.m., which he considered a heroic act. He was on the road by 5:45. The streets were calm, the sky was soft, and the radio played a cheerful song. For ten minutes, he believed in a better world.

Then he reached the first junction. A long line of cars stretched ahead like a metal snake that had stopped for a nap. A man in a yellow vest was waving his arms with great confidence and no obvious plan.

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Dayo, the passenger in the front seat. “This is only small traffic. We will pass in five minutes.” It was a prediction. Mr. Dayo had made many such predictions in his life, and in all of them he had been generously wrong.

Rule Two: Respect the Prophet in the Front Seat

Every car has a prophet. This one sat next to Tunde, held his phone like a holy book and spoke in a calm, certain voice. “Take the left,” he said. “It is faster.”

Tunde took the left. It was not faster. It led to a long road with a surprise roadblock, three goats and a man selling oranges who looked at the line of cars with the satisfaction of a farmer watching his crops grow.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Dayo. “That is not what the app said.”

“What did the app say?”

“It said left. It did not mention the goats.”

Rule Three: Watch the Fuel Gauge Like a Hawk

At 7:15, as the traffic crawled past a shopping mall, Tunde glanced at the dashboard. The fuel needle sat low, trembling like a nervous student at an exam.

“Oga, how much petrol do we have?” asked the lady in the back, Mrs. Amina, who had been quietly eating groundnuts since 6:30.

“Enough,” said Tunde bravely.

“How much is enough?”

“Enough to keep hope alive.”

The silence in the car was thicker than the traffic. A man in the next lane noticed the dashboard light and gave Tunde a long sympathetic look, the kind men give each other at funerals.

Rule Four: Accept That Every Diversion Has a Personality

At 8 a.m., a policeman waved them off the main road. “Diversion,” he said, pointing vaguely at the horizon. “Ahead, turn, then turn again, then you will see.”

“See what?” asked Tunde.

“You will know,” said the policeman, who had clearly given similar directions to every car since dawn.

The diversion was an adventure. They passed a half-built bridge, a roundabout with no exit and a field where children were playing football in the middle of the road. At one point, they drove through a gate and out of another gate, and nobody could say how it happened.

“Where are we?” asked Mrs. Amina.

“We are in the middle of the unknown,” said Mr. Dayo, proudly.

Rule Five: Never Trust a Shortcut

At 9 a.m., the third passenger, a student named Femi, spoke up for the first time. “I know a shortcut,” he said. Everyone leaned forward. A shortcut, in this city, is like a legend. People talk about it. Nobody has proof.

The shortcut was a narrow lane between two buildings. It began well. It had smooth tarmac and a peaceful atmosphere. Then it ended at a wall.

“It was open last week,” said Femi.

“Last week it was a road,” said Tunde. “This week it is a decoration.”

Reversing took twenty minutes and the combined efforts of four strangers, two street vendors and a man who just happened to be passing and enjoyed giving advice.

Rule Six: Celebrate the Small Victories

At 10:10, the car finally rolled into the office district. The roads were open. The sun was bright. A gentle breeze made the trees dance. Tunde, who had survived goats, diversions and a wall, felt like a hero returning from a long journey.

He pulled up outside the first office. Mr. Dayo stepped out and said, “See? I told you. Five minutes.” He walked away with the pride of a man who had said the same thing four hours earlier.

Mrs. Amina thanked him for the groundnut conversation. Femi apologised for the wall. And Tunde, still sitting in his car, looked at the fuel gauge. It showed a trembling line just above empty.

He patted the steering wheel. “Good car,” he whispered. “You are a legend.”

The Final Lesson

Surviving city traffic is not about speed. It is about patience, humour and a healthy distrust of anyone who says “only five minutes”. Pack snacks, charge your phone, keep a little fuel and always, always have a good song on the radio.

And if someone offers you a shortcut, smile politely, thank them and take the long road. It is longer, yes. But at least it has no wall.