Let me tell you something important: never argue with a trotro mate over 50 pesewas. Just let it go. Even if you’re right, even if you have a PhD in Economics, even if you are the president of Ghana’s Change Givers Association — just let it go.
But me? I didn’t listen. And that’s how I ended up stuck in a trotro, sweating like jollof at a wedding, surrounded by angry passengers, a shouting mate, and one very confused policeman.
It all started on a hot Monday morning.
The sun was already behaving like it wanted to fry everybody in Accra. I was late for work — again. I rushed out of the house, shirt half-buttoned, belt in one hand, and one slice of bread in the other. I got to the roadside just in time to see the last decent-looking trotro zoom past.
Of course.
After waiting another 20 minutes, a trotro finally stopped. It was shaking like a tired donkey, and the door handle was tied with a rope, but I didn’t care. I jumped in.
“Circle! Circle last stop!” the mate shouted.
“Mate, how much?” I asked.
“₵5.50.”
“Ei? But last week it was ₵5!”
He rolled his eyes. “Fuel prices have gone up. Everything has gone up. Even your breath has gone up.”
I sighed and paid ₵5. I didn’t have the 50 pesewas, but I told him I’d sort it out when we get to Circle. And that’s when the trouble started.
Let me repeat this for your own good: never argue with a trotro mate over 50 pesewas. Just let it go. Even if you're broke, even if you feel cheated, even if you think the mate is trying to scam you — just close your eyes and pay.
But me? I let my pride win. And that’s how I ended up stuck in a trotro, sweating like a fresh ball of kenkey left in the sun.
The Ride Begins
It was a Monday morning, and as usual, I was late for work. My alarm had betrayed me again. Actually, I heard it, but I pressed snooze five times and told myself, “Just five more minutes.” You know how that story ends.
I rushed out of the house with one sock on, my tie in my pocket, and a slice of dry bread in my mouth. I ran to the roadside like a confused goat and waved at every trotro that passed.
Finally, one stopped. It looked tired. The seats were old, the door handle was hanging, and the back window was held together with tape and prayer. But I didn’t care. A trotro is a trotro when you’re late.
“Circle, Circle last stop!” the mate shouted.
“How much?” I asked as I climbed in.
“₵5.50.”
“Ei? But last week it was ₵5!”
“Ah, uncle,” the mate said, not even looking at me. “Fuel has increased. Even lollipops are now ₵2.50.”
I sighed and gave him ₵5. That was all I had in my pocket. No coins. Just that ₵5 note that had been through a lot in life.
“I’ll give you the 50 pesewas when we reach,” I said.
He didn’t reply. He just nodded and moved on to collect more fares. I thought, “Okay, this mate understands. Today, peace of mind.”
Oh, I was wrong.
Meet the Characters
The trotro was full of drama. First, there was an old woman with a basket of smoked fish who kept yelling, “Driver, small small! I’m not meat pie oo!” every time the driver hit a pothole.
Then there was a guy wearing dark shades and a suit, talking loudly on the phone like he was on CNN.
“Hello, yes, the contract is 20 million dollars. Tell them to add VAT. I’m not small boy,” he shouted, even though his phone screen was black.
Behind me was a church woman who sang gospel songs out loud, clapping her hands like she was in anointing mode. She even tried to “lay hands” on the driver when he overtook another car.
Then there was the mate — skinny, loud, and full of attitude. His voice could wake the dead. And he had the memory of a shark. Even though I entered 30 minutes ago, he didn’t forget my 50 pesewas.
As we reached Circle, he tapped me hard.
“Bossman, my 50p.”
“I told you I don’t have it now,” I said. “Let me go and come, I’ll bring it.”
“Come where? Go where? Do I look like your bank?”
He blocked the door and shouted, “Nobody is coming down till this man pays my 50p!”
The Drama Begins
People were tired. It was hot. The fish in the old woman’s basket was sweating. And now they couldn’t get down because of me and my 50 pesewas.
One man in the back shouted, “Ah mate, is it 50 Ghana or 50p? Allow us to get down, na we go late!”
The church woman said, “My spirit says you should forgive him. God will bless you.”
The CNN contract man added, “Ah, just let us go. I have a million-dollar deal to close.”
“On your off phone?” I muttered.
The mate wasn’t smiling. “Nobody is going anywhere. I work for money. 50p is money!”
That’s when I also got angry.
“But you agreed! I told you I didn’t have it now!”
“I agreed to collect it later. Did I say I’ll forget? If I allow you, you’ll vanish like airtime.”
I stood up. “So because of 50p, you’re holding the whole trotro hostage?”
The old woman shouted, “You too, just pay the 50p!”
I turned to her. “Mama, I said I don’t have!”
“Then get down and go and beg!” she snapped.
I was now sweating. The driver turned off the engine and leaned back like it was a Nollywood film. He knew a show was coming.
“Mate, just take his watch or something and let’s move,” someone joked.
“I don’t even wear a watch!” I shouted.
“Then remove your shirt. We will sell it and pay,” another added.
People started laughing. The mate was still not moved.
Then, suddenly, a voice came from outside.
“Wetin dey happen here?”
The Police Appear
A policeman had arrived. You know those ones who look serious even when they’re joking? This one wore shades, had a big stomach, and walked like he owned the road.
“Why are you blocking traffic?” he asked the driver.
“Oga, na this man,” the mate pointed at me. “He no gree pay my 50p.”
The policeman looked confused. “50p? As in 0.50? Half of one cedi?”
“Yes sir!” the mate said with pride, like he was reporting a murder.
The officer turned to me.
“You, you no wan pay?”
“Officer, I explained to him. I only had ₵5. I told him I’ll give him the rest later.”
The officer looked at me, then at the mate, then burst into laughter.
“You people are mad. The two of you. Mad!”
The whole trotro laughed. Even the smoked fish seemed to smile.
But then, he got serious.
“Settle this thing fast before I carry all of you to the station.”
Nobody wanted that.
I checked my bag again. Still no coins. Then I had an idea.
I turned to the woman with the smoked fish.
“Mama, please, can I borrow 50p? I will pay you when I get back.”
She looked at me like I had asked for her daughter’s hand in marriage.
“Young man, do I look like Bank of Ghana?”
Then, finally, the church woman said, “I have change. Let me give him.”
She brought out 1 cedi and gave it to the mate.
“Take and keep the change. May the Lord bless you.”
The mate looked surprised but accepted it quickly. He jumped down, opened the door, and shouted, “Circle last stop!”
Everyone rushed out, including me.
I turned to the woman and said, “God will bless you too, madam. I’m very grateful.”
She smiled and said, “Just don’t argue with mates again. Next time, they might use you to balance their tyre.”
I nodded quickly.
The Lesson
That day, I was late to work. My boss asked why. I said, “Sir, I had a financial disagreement in public transport.”
He didn’t understand. I didn’t care.
I learned my lesson. Since then, I always keep small coins in my pocket. Not because I love mates — no. But because I love peace.
So my advice to you?
If a mate says “₵5.50,” don’t say “I have ₵5.” Don’t argue. Don’t try to be clever. Just find the coins, pay, and save yourself the shame of almost being taken to the police station over 50 pesewas.
Because pride, my friend, is expensive. And mates? Mates never forget.
The End
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