“I’m not crazy.” That was the first thing I said to the psychiatrist the corporate office hired, and it was also the last thing I whispered to myself before kickstarting my bike the night everything changed.
Free PixabayMy name is Zainab Bello, a 26 years old dispatch rider from New Nyanya. I ride a red Haojue I call 'Small Pepper' because she is slim, loud and unexpectedly hot on the throttle. My days are measured in kilometres, in the smell of hot engine oil, in the constant bargaining with agberos (street touts) who believe every rider must drop money for them.
That Tuesday in September, the WhatsApp came at 11:48 p.m., and it reads:
URGENT PICK-UP
Location: Mararaba Junction
Destination: House 77, Road 0, Garki Area 8
Fee: Triple fare.
Sender: Private number.
I showed Amina, my business partner, who was shelling groundnuts behind our plastic table office.
“Road 0?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s like saying ‘nowhere.’ ”
“Triple fare is triple fare,” I answered, pocketing the phone. “Rent is due, remember?”
She poured nuts into my palm like fuel. “Zee, shine your eye. Nigeria roads can disappear and reappear with new potholes.”
I laughed, tied my scarf under my helmet, and rolled Small Pepper (my bike) into the night. The air smelled of suya smoke and the last prayers from a distant mosque. I did not know I was riding toward a question every adult in my life would later ask: “Zainab, are you sure you are well?”
About 20-30 minutes later, I reached Mararaba Junction. Streetlights blinked like faulty Christmas bulbs. And I saw an old woman in stiff lace, head-tie knotted the way my late grandmother tied hers. She held a calabash wrapped in black nylon. No car, no bike, no greeting.
“Are you the rider?” she asked. Her voice felt far away, an echo from a well.
“Yes, ma’am. Dispatch.” I stretched my hand for the parcel.
She placed the calabash on my lap. It was uncomfortably warm, as if something inside were breathing. I flinched.
“Deliver,” she said, “before the cock crows.”
“Is the address correct?” I tried to joke. “Road Zero doesn’t show up on Google Maps.”
Her eyes shone. “Road Zero exists for eyes that choose to see it. Go.”
She crossed the road and vanished between two trucks that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. My throat tasted of metal. But triple fare is triple fare.
I typed “Road 0, Garki Area 8” into my phone map. The pin landed inside blank grey, i.e no road, no contour. I shrugged, twisted throttle, and merged into the sleepy highway.
The first odd thing I noticed was that the fuel gauge stayed frozen at half tank despite sixty kilometres of hard riding. Secondly, every billboard I passed advertised the same thing 'an empty yellow bulldozer' under the words “Coming Soon.” Thirdly at around 1:27 a.m, my headlamp died. I taped my phone torch to the handlebar and kept riding, heart drumming like Afrobeat on glass.
By 2:15, I entered Garki Area 8. Mansions slept behind high walls. I slowed at every corner, looking for House 77. Nothing. I stopped beside a security guard.
“Excuse me, where is Road Zero?”
The guard yawned. “Madam, roads have numbers, not zero. Turn back.”
I rode another loop. Same streets, same sleeping dogs. Then, at exactly 3:07 a.m, the engine coughed and died. I looked up and there it was a short, freshly tarred lane I had not seen minutes earlier. A single street sign, white on blue: ROAD 0. At the far end, one bungalow with a faint porch light: HOUSE 77.
My hands shook. I pushed Small Pepper the last fifty metres, calabash balanced against the tank. As I reached for the gates, No bell, so I knocked.
“Delivery,” I called.
Silence answered. I stepped inside. The compound was empty no flowers, no curtains, only bare walls and a yellow bulldozer parked in the centre like modern art. The calabash vibrated. I set it down, turned, and ran. Small Pepper started on the first kick, headlamp blazing back to life. I did not look in the mirror until I reached the main road.
Morning found me in our office, exhausted, telling Amina everything. She listened, then opened the receipt book. One new entry, timestamped 3:07 a.m, signed in my handwriting “Z.B. Delivered to Self.”
“Zee, you’re over working. Let’s close shop so you can rest,” she said softly.
I wanted to agree, but rest is a luxury riders can’t afford. I went home, bathed, returned to the road. Yet the day only deepened the mystery.
At a police checkpoint, an officer waved me over.
“Your plate number was reported stolen yesterday.”
I laughed. “Officer, I’ve owned this bike for two years.”
He showed me a report on his phone with my number, my name but I never filed any complaint. I paid a small bribe and rode away, heart heavier than the calabash.
By evening, social media had joined the conspiracy. A passenger posted a TikTok titled “Rider disappeared for three seconds caughtby my CCTV camera.” The clip showed me static, then disappeared for about 3-5 seconds then reappearing.
(GhostRider) trended. Customers cancelled their rides. Amina was called and tagged, “Is your partner a spirit?”
I had to prove I was flesh, blood, and rational. So at this point, I had to prove my sanity and to also explain to the people what had happen.
Amina rushed to me with news that corporate office had seen the viral clips and wanted to meet. We drove to their tower in Central Area. In the boardroom, I brought out the 2027-dated naira note the old woman paid.
The finance director examined the note, eyes wide; “This is from our commemorative print run scheduled for two years. Security thread checks out. How did you get it?”
I told the entire story and they listened without interrupting. That evening, I updated my socials: “I’m not crazy. I just completed the delivery everyone else refused.” The post blew up, but this time with applause and job offers from riders across the country.
I still wake some nights at 3:07 a.m, Small Pepper purring in the yard. I no longer fight the waking; I dress, ride out, let the city tell me what is missing. Sometimes Road 0 reappears and sometimes it doesn’t.
Either way, I carry the 2027-dated naira note like a passport, reminding every checkpoint, every doubting voice the address exists if you are brave enough to search, and sanity is simply the courage to finish what you started even if the final recipient is yourself.
From PixabayEven though no one had believed me, I knew I was not hallucinating. Yeah, it migh have been something supernatural, but thanks to the 2027-dated naira note, it was evident that I wasn't crazy.
