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A Bonnet, a Blaze, and the Better Angels of Our Nature

By Dr. Anietie John Ukpe

On my way home late one evening, something stopped me cold on Airport Road — that artery of Abuja where cars fly like angry soldier ants on a warpath. But this time, time itself seemed to freeze.

Flames licked hungrily at the sealed bonnet of a white Toyota Corolla, casting a sinister glow that bled into the night. The car stood in isolation, not as a vehicle, but as a smouldering relic of battle — like a wounded war tank left to die in no man’s land. It made no sound, yet somehow, it screamed for help.

I pulled over, heart racing. I jumped out, ran to my boot, praying for a fire extinguisher — it wasn’t there. Despair gripped me, but before it could settle, another car screeched to a halt. A stranger leapt out, extinguisher in hand. We didn’t speak — we didn’t need to. Instinct took over. Humanity took over.

The Toyota Corolla’s owner was frantic, hurling sand with trembling hands, his eyes wild with fear. The fire rose, greedy and unrelenting — as stubborn as a cobra. Then another car stopped. Then another. And another. Soon, Airport Road became an unexpected battleground — not of rage or politics, but of compassion. Fire extinguishers emerged like swords in the hands of reluctant heroes.

People ran into danger for a man whose name they didn’t know. Of course the Pharisees and Sadducees still zoomed past the battlefield. Only the Good Samaritans stopped to lend a hand and quench the fire.

Someone shouted, “We must open the bonnet to get at the fire!”

Another forced it open, and the flame leapt like a cornered beast. Still, no one retreated.

More fire. More resolve. When the flames ducked beneath the steering wheel, someone yelled, “Break the windscreen!”

A stone was hurled. Glass shattered. Smoke bellowed. Hearts pounded.

Still, more people joined us. Fire extinguishers exchanged hands like torches in a relay of selflessness.

No one asked who the driver was. No one paused to ask, “Is he Christian or Muslim? Northerner or Southerner? PDP or APC?”

No one cared. Because at that moment, we were not tribes, we were not tongues — we were one. A people. A family. A nation, if only for a flicker of time. We were car owners fighting to stop a man we did not know from losing his car.

We fought that fire with everything we had — not because we were firefighters, but because we were human. And when, finally, the flames withered and died — starved of oxygen but drowned in love — we erupted in cheers. We had saved a stranger’s car. And in doing so, perhaps we had saved something of ourselves. Though I cannot say what.

We didn’t exchange names. No selfies. No hashtags. Just quiet nods and the kind of smile that only shared battle brings. Then, like mist, we returned to our cars and drove off into the night — ordinary people who had done something extraordinary.

As I drove home, the smoke clung to my clothes like a memory that refused to fade. And my eyes—yes, they welled. Not from the fire. But from the beauty I had just witnessed. For a fleeting moment, I saw the Nigeria I dream of every night. The Nigeria I long to wake up to.

A Nigeria where strangers stop for strangers.
Where we uproot pain from the lives around us —not plant it.
Where compassion trumps identity, and love is blind to tribe, faith, and origin.

And in the quiet of my car, I whispered a prayer:

“Lord, let this nation catch fire…
Not the fire that consumes,
But the fire that cleanses.
The fire of love. Of brotherhood. Of mercy.
Let us become a people who help without hesitation,
Who love without question,
Who lift others even when we do not know their faces or names.”

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