Some stories become family legends—not because they are true in every detail, but because they are too good not to be retold. Growing up in Bacita, near the River Niger, I saw my father travel constantly between our home and Lagos. As Chief Accountant and Company Secretary, he seemed to spend as much time on the road as he did in the office. Acquisitions, shareholder meetings, board meetings—you name it, he was there. In those days, despite the occasional danger, people routinely drove through the night. The journey took five or six hours, depending on the roads and how many relatives, friends, or roadside food stalls tempted him to stop. If I happened to be at secondary school in Offa, he might decide on a whim to branch off and see me. He never travelled alone. One of his favourite drivers was a cheerful fellow called Abiodun. Spend that many hours together on Nigeria's roads, and your driver soon becomes more than an employee. They became family—our unofficial uncles and older b...