A popular saying goes, “Dress how you want to be addressed.”

I often wonder if humans know that we, the cars, also judge them quietly, without their permission. When he drives me up to people's gates, I wonder what they think of him. I hate to imagine that they see him as a pauper, though I know deep down that’s exactly what crosses their minds.

Yesterday, for instance, we pulled up to an office in Victoria Island. The security guard glanced at us and waved us aside to park outside the compound. But just behind us, a Benz GLE slid in smoothly, and the guard opened the gates without hesitation, his salute crisp and respectful.

It’s not that my owner doesn’t deserve such courtesy. After all, he’s worked hard, hustled day and night, clawing his way through Lagos traffic and deadlines. But in this city, respect often depends on the badge on the bonnet. I’ve served him for many years. Through rainy nights when the wipers struggled against Apapa’s storms. Through blistering hot afternoons in Ojuelegba, when the air conditioner barely puffed out lukewarm air. I’ve carried his children, groceries, church clothes, and dreams. Yet no one acknowledges me. All they see now is the way I cough before I start, the smoky sigh I release on steep bridges, and my frequent trips to the mechanic at Mushin.

And oh, the mechanic, Baba Tunde. I know him too well. He pokes, adjusts, and scolds my owner, “Oga, dis motor don old o. Make you change am.” My owner just nods, pockets shallow, eyes tired. But he never insults me. That’s why I endure. At night, when we finally crawl into his compound in Surulere, I always hear him exhale as he switches off my ignition. It’s not just relief, it’s gratitude. Gratitude that I got him home in one piece, that the brakes held, that the gearbox didn’t betray him in Third Mainland’s endless traffic.

There’s little he can do now, except whisper his occasional promises of an upgrade. “Soon,” he tells himself, staring at the neighbors’ SUVs gleaming under floodlights. Soon, I’ll arrive at places like a king.

Until then, the clanking rhythm of my engine remains his unwanted background music. Yet for him, it’s a strange comfort - proof that I’m still alive, that I haven’t given up.

But let me confess something most humans don’t know: we cars also feel shame. At least, I do. Last week, on Allen Avenue, we pulled up beside a Toyota Corolla 2021. The young lady driving it looked at my rusted paint, the patched fender, the window that never rolled up completely. She smirked, shook her head slightly, and sped off. My mirrors burned with embarrassment. I didn’t mind her mocking me - but mocking him? My owner? That cut deep.

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Because if only they knew his story. If only they knew how much he had sacrificed to keep me running: selling his most expensive wristwatch once to buy me new tires, skipping his own meals just to fuel me enough to reach Ibadan for his sister’s wedding. They see the car; they don’t see the man.

And that’s the twist, isn’t it? Humans think they own cars, but really, it’s cars that carry their reputations. A man in a tattered suit driving a Prado will be respected before a man in fine clothes driving me. That’s Nigeria for you: perception weighs heavier than truth.

Still, I dream. Yes, even cars dream. I dream of the day he’ll finally upgrade, not because I want to be abandoned, but because he deserves it. I want to see his face light up when he slides into a smoother ride, one that doesn’t betray him with smoke or squeaks. I imagine him cruising through the Lekki toll gate, chin up, security guards waving without hesitation. That day, I’ll retire gladly, rusting away in peace, knowing I did my duty.

But until then, I keep going. I keep coughing awake every morning. I keep battling potholes on Ikorodu Road, swallowing dust along Abuja express, and shaking off insults from danfo drivers who laugh when we slow down. I keep moving, because for every scoff from strangers, there’s his gentle pat on the steering, his quiet, “Thank you.”

And that’s what keeps me alive.

So maybe, just maybe, what we drive doesn’t always say who we are. Sometimes, it only says where we are for now. And if you listen closely, you’ll hear cars like me reminding our owners that better days are ahead.

After all, even a clanking engine can sing hope.