Anush Nayak
The sign reads, “No Boda-bodas Permitted”—a noble attempt at urban order, a monument to traffic management, a silent promise of control. And yet, in the very frame, a lone boda-boda glides past, oblivious to bureaucratic decree. The irony is almost poetic: no matter how meticulously the city sketches its lines and posts its signs, the boda-bodas seem to follow a different set of rules, written by the pulse of the streets themselves.
As my friend wryly observes, riding a boda through thick traffic is sheer exhilaration; witnessing one overtake you in your car, slightly terrifying. The city’s attempt at discipline collides with human ingenuity, and in that collision, one sees the beautiful absurdity of urban life—the eternal dance of law, defiance, and the rhythm of movement that no sign can truly command. Something close to what I experience back home.
