Travel Matters

You sit next to each other. Your knees rubbing against the back of the seats in front. The numbness in your legs seeping through every fiber of your being and your joints momentarily being fractured by every bump on the road. The dusty wind blows in through the partially opened window, forming a shade of dusty brown on your hair, and giving each shade of hair a slightly tinted and dusky look. You stretch lightly, rubbing your right thumb on the insides of your left palm – a habit you unconsciously developed from the beginning of this journey.

Nudging to the left a bit, you tilt your head a little backwards, slightly resting the bosom part on the back rest whose covered leather is close to a raggedy state. You close your eyes, synchronizing your mood with Sunshine Avenues' Heartbreak Century playing on the radio, it reminds you of the love whose beginning was the start of an end - a love that lasted only as long as a flicker. You check your emotions, snapping out of the depth your mood have taken you to, calling yourself back to your reality, and refusing to take yourself back memory lanes that hurts your heart, you look out the bus window, noticing how pregnant with rain the cloud had turned, which, not for the first time, contradicts the weather forecast from the news. You scoff quietly, remembering the weather forecast from the news, and how the newscaster had ended confidently with these words; we would be experiencing a lot of hotness in the state today, so, please stay hydrated.

You heave heavily, feeling a bit cold, and wondering why they never seem to get the forecast right. Not even for once.

The dress in your bag has been tailored to fit Mrs. Umahi perfectly. It is your first design and your second delivery. She had seen the design on the eve of Independence Day Celebration through your social media handles, and had requested same style for herself. This design holds a special place in your heart. It was inspired by nature and had flora tints embellished with pleats of emerald. Looking at how tight the space in which the bag sat, you pray the dress remains straightened even as the bus hits yet another bump.

Driver, what kind of a bus is this?

The woman by your left who’s been hissing from the start of the journey asks.

We do not understand how an 18 sitter carrier bus is automatically converted to a 20 sitter carrier bus. Just look at how tight it is, we can't even stretch our legs.

She lamented as she hisses even more. You watch her roll her eyes in a way that shows unpleasantness and spite. She stretches her legs briefly in the small space that fences it in a bid to ease the numbness away and at the same time, create a bit of space. 

Looking around the bus for the first time, you notice same discomfort on the faces of co passengers as yours. The man sitting at the far corner by your right has a frown on his face with a bulging stomach that looks disgustingly awkward. His is the type of protruding stomach that speaks of irresponsible drinking; the type that tells he is building his mansion and investing his future in the bowel of his gut. He has a maroon jacket the size of a baby elephant thrown across his shoulders and a pair of shades so dark worn across his eyes you almost think of him to be one who is visually impaired. The man sitting next to him however, has a fine manly figure. You can tell he is in his early thirties. He has a charm that seems to work perfectly on the lady sitting beside him by the left. The lady reminds you of Mrs Umahi. She looks like what her younger version would be; elegant and irresistibly gorgeous. They smile at each other a lot, holding eye contact for moments which feels like eternity. It is like reading the beginning of a happily ever after love story as they throw unrepentant savoring glances at each other. You play scenes in your head, of the inchoate story that would read 'Love at First Sight' while you watch the man with the maroon jacket the size of a baby elephant look in opposite direction, making faces that told of hell as an eternal afterlife for every sinner. And as he makes faces at the 'sinful pair' a bit more, a loud bang of thunder is heard, and the rain starts to pour.

It pours in torrents, overshadowing Yoke Lores' Bravado streaming from the radio, and dripping down in slow drops on the passengers at the seats in the back through the semi pores of holes from the roof top of the bus, leaving patches of dusty colored maps on monochrome and multi colored wears of each passenger, and arousing an atmosphere of discomfort, vex, and frustration.

What do we call this? Shower in a bus?

A passenger vented.

Why is your bus having a leaking roof!? Driver!?

You hear yet another co passenger vent in great irritation. And, just like that, angry voices overlap each other with the driver saying zilch.

Praise the Lord!

You hear the woman sitting at the far left of the last seat in the bus shout, in an attempt to deafen the voices of others. 

Hallelujah!!

The fat bellied man with the maroon jacket responded, shouting even louder, and throwing momentarily 'Holy Ghost' glances at the ‘sinful’ pair who seemed to have no qualms with writing their love story.

God is good……

She continued, looking at the 'sinful pair' with same intensity of eyes as the fat bellied maroon jacket man.

Today, God is leading me to preach on salvation. God is saying stop immorality, stop throwing slutty looks at each other. God is saying hell awaits you if you don’t abstain from such acts. God is saying you should allow Him wash your sins away as these drops of rain drip on you. God is saying...

God is saying nothing.

The man by your right speaks, like he is trying to whisper into your ears alone. It is your first time hearing him speak since the beginning of the journey. He has an accent that makes his words sound like he is talking through his nose.

You see, religion is the biggest farce in Nigeria. It has made a mediocre out of many. Here, companies are laid waste to provide lands for churches in which people go to pray for jobs. What an irony. I tell you, religion here is all facades of lie.

He whispers this last statement even lower, nudging you a little on the shoulders as if to confirm the validity of his words. You smile in a bid to encourage him continue with the discussion as the driver halts the bus to allow a passenger alight.

You see, God condemns immorality. You should leave your love story for God to write. He writes the best stories.

The woman preaches on. By this time, the fat bellied maroon jacket man had passed out sleeping. The woman with the ‘Holy Ghost life’ seemed to have lost a potential member as she watches him nod his head in tactful strides making his way to wonder land without affirming her words. And, with every stop that saw a passenger alight, she grew less active with her preaching. 

You are beginning to get wary from the talk of religion and its menace with the man by your right. It feels like he holds a lot of spite for religion. You can feel the heat of hate permeate out of every pore, out of every sweat that breaks off his skin. 

With half concentration, you check your bag to see how rumpled Mrs. Umahi’s clothe might have turned out. Thankfully, it is still in a wearable state and as you lift the bag to sit on your lap, you look around the bus again and, you realize how seemingly quiet everywhere has become except for the hush whispers from the man by your right which gratefully, was gradually being deafened by the sound of the rain. And, looking out the window again, you thought of how wrong the weather forecast had been, just like the woman with the 'Holy Ghost life'.