We
were supposed to leave by 7:30 PM. That was the plan. But by 11 PM,
we were still at the park—tired, hungry, and watching the night
swallow the last traces of patience. Every other bus had left. Ours
stood there like a forgotten promise.
There
was this man by the side, eating nkwobi like he had a contract with
the goat. First plate. Second. Third. Fourth. Then two bottles of
beer. He wasn’t just eating—he was celebrating. Laughing
with the park staff, calling them by name, slapping backs like he
owned the place.
I
watched him closely. He looked too familiar with the environment. Too
comfortable. I started to fear he was the driver.
I
prayed he wasn’t.
Not
because he was drunk—though that was part of it. But because he
looked like the kind of man who’d drive with one hand on the
wheel and the other still holding a toothpick. The kind that would
argue with passengers mid-journey, stop to buy suya, and forget to
check the brakes. I didn’t want my life in the hands of someone
who treated nkwobi like communion.
By
11:30, two men finally showed up. One was an albino. The other looked
like he’d just woken up inside a generator. To my shock, the
albino was the second driver. The other was the first.
I
started wishing the nkwobi man was the driver.
Someone
beside me whispered, “Albinos see better at night.” I
didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. I just nodded
and kept quiet.
Just
as the bus finally groaned to life and pulled out of the park, a man
stood up near the front and cleared his throat like he was about to
deliver a sermon that would shake the heavens.
“Praise
the Lord!” he shouted.
I
didn’t even need to hear the second line. I knew what was
coming. My instincts kicked in the moment he said those three words.
I leaned back and whispered to the man beside me, “Offering is
coming.”
The
man chuckled. “Just wait.”
The
pastor didn’t waste time. He launched into full warfare
mode—casting out blood-sucking demons, rebuking ancestral
curses, and calling down fire from heaven. He jumped, he sweated, he
stomped like the devil was hiding under someone’s seat. People
joined in. Some prayed. Some shouted. Some just nodded nervously,
clearly not wanting to die on the road.
It
was spiritual aerobics.
Now,
this was a luxurious bus. We had our own charging ports, reading
lights, reclining seats—the full package. It felt like we were
flying through Nigeria on a cloud of comfort. But even with all that,
the pastor’s voice cut through everything. Luxury couldn’t
block anointing.
Then
came the moment we all knew was coming.
“Brethren,
it’s time to sow a seed!”
He
said it like it was a privilege. Like we were lucky to be alive and
breathing in his presence. People started reaching into their bags.
Some gave generously. I didn’t. Neither did the man beside me.
We just exchanged a look—one of those silent agreements that
didn’t need words.
The
bus kept moving, and the pastor kept preaching. But then something
shifted. People started banging on the door that separated us from
the drivers. Someone shouted, “He’s not going outside
Lagos! He needs to come down!”
The
driver sent the albino to calm us down. He walked in like a peace
ambassador, told everyone to relax. Then the bus halted—abruptly.
The pastor didn’t wait. He jumped down mid-motion, hit his leg
on the doorframe. People screamed. I winced. But he landed in one
piece.
And
yes—he secured the offering.
The
bus had steadied. The chaos of departure was behind us, and the
pastor had jumped out with his offering. People settled into their
seats—some watching movies, some sleeping, some just staring
into the dark.
I
left my seat and joined a small group near the middle. Abel was the
chief speaker. He had that kind of voice that made people
listen—confident, slightly bitter, and full of opinions. There
was a girl there too. Rejoice. She looked about seventeen. I was
nineteen. I noticed her eyes lingered on me when I spoke. That kind
of stare that carried something else.
Abel
started with pastors.
“Most
of them are thieves,” he said, shaking his head. “They
preach fire, collect offering, then go home to AC and DSTV.”
People
laughed. Some nodded. Rejoice smiled, but didn’t say much.
Then
Abel moved to the economy.
“This
country is finished,” he said. “No jobs, no hope. Armed
robbery will increase. People are hungry. You think prayer will stop
hunger?”
He
had a way of talking that made you agree—even if you didn’t
want to. I chipped in a few jokes, light ones, just to keep the mood
from sinking. They laughed. Rejoice laughed too. Her laugh was soft,
but it stayed with me.
We
talked about everything—pastors, politicians, fuel prices, even
the way Lagos traffic could make you question your existence. Abel
kept steering the conversation, always circling back to how broken
the system was. How people would soon start taking what they needed
by force.
Looking
back, it makes sense. He wasn’t just talking. He was preparing
us.
The
lights in the bus shifted to a soft blue—company policy, they
said. It was meant to help travelers relax. But with the way things
were unfolding, relaxation was a myth.
From
the back came a scream. Then another. Then someone shouted, “Driver!”
But
the cabin was locked.
We
were at the front, still talking. The mood was mellow, the air tinted
blue, and Rejoice was laughing at something I’d said. Her laugh
lingered. It carried warmth. I was just about to say something else
when the screams got louder.
A
man rushed past us, clutching his stomach like he’d swallowed a
grenade. He ran to the cabin door, raised his hand to bang—then
froze, grabbed his bum, and ran back. Then forward again. Then back.
Four times. It was like watching a man fight his own intestines.
I
recognized him instantly.
It
was the nkwobi man.
That
made it worse—and funnier.
Abel
was the first to speak. “I warned him,” he said, shaking
his head. “Four plates? Two bottles? He thought he was
immortal.”
We
laughed. Not out of cruelty, but because the whole thing felt like a
scene from a Nollywood comedy. The man groaned, jumped, stood still,
then banged on the cabin door like it owed him money. The driver
didn’t respond.
Then
one of the women, moved by pity and practicality, told him to squat
at the back and use a nylon. Others agreed. They handed him one.
He
squatted.
The
stench came like a prophecy fulfilled.
People
screamed. Some gagged. Others just held their breath and banged on
the cabin door like their lives depended on it. The driver finally
gave in. He opened up, listened to the chaos, and stopped the bus.
We
all rushed out—gasping for air, clutching our noses, some even
laughing through the pain. The man came out too, holding the nylon
like a trophy. A few others followed him into the nearby field to
relieve themselves. It was dark, but nobody cared.
That’s
when we realized—we had just left Lagos.
The
journey was still long.
And
already, it felt like we’d lived a lifetime.
After
the great poop escape, the bus settled again. The air was tense, but
the soft blue lights helped. People returned to their seats, some
still holding their noses, others laughing like they’d just
survived a war. The luxurious comfort returned, but the memory of
that nylon still lingered.
I
stayed with the group. Rejoice was still there—quiet,
observant, and watching me with that kind of stare that made you
forget the madness around you. I said something—I don’t
even remember what—and she laughed. Not the kind of laugh you
give to be polite. The kind that comes from somewhere deeper. The
kind that makes you want to say something else just to hear it again.
We
talked. Not loudly. Just enough. She told me she was going to see her
aunt. I told her I was heading for a program. Our words danced around
each other—careful, curious, warm. I noticed the way she tilted
her head when I spoke. The way her fingers played with the hem of her
sleeve. The way her smile lingered longer than necessary.
It
wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth. Slow. Burning.
Then
she said, casually, “My dad’s a pastor.”
I
smiled. “Mine too.”
She
looked surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,”
I said. “But he doesn’t shout fire in buses.”
She
laughed again. “Mine doesn’t either.”
We
talked about growing up with pastors—how Sundays felt like
rehearsals for heaven, how every mistake came with a Bible verse, how
even silence could be spiritual. She told me she loved music. I told
her I wrote stories. She said she liked people who made her laugh. I
said I liked people who listened.
She
asked if I believed in love at first sight. I said no—but I
believed in something close. That moment when someone’s
presence feels familiar, like you’ve met before in a dream or a
prayer. She smiled and looked away, like she was hiding something
behind her eyes.
We
talked about school, about how hard it was to focus when the country
felt like it was falling apart. She said she wanted to study
psychology.
We
didn’t say anything dramatic. But everything we said felt like
it mattered.
The
bus had gone quiet. Most people were asleep, some half-watching
movies, others just staring into the blue light like it held answers.
I was still talking with Rejoice. She asked what I wanted to study. I
said, “Law.”
She
looked at me, curious. “Law?”
“Yeah.
Law and people,” I said. “I like knowing what makes
people tick—and what makes them talk.”
She
smiled. “You’d be dangerous.”
I
laughed. “Only to the guilty.”
Then
Abel stood up.
He
walked to the cabin and spoke to the driver. The bus slowed. We were
somewhere near Warri, or maybe past it—I couldn’t tell.
It was dark, quiet, and too still.
Then
they came.
Men
stepped out of the bush. Armed. Fast. No warning. People screamed.
Bags clutched. Heads ducked. It was madness.
Abel
didn’t flinch. He stood like he’d rehearsed it. Calm.
Cold. He turned to us and said, “Stay calm. Nobody needs to
die.”
Then
something shifted.
The
nkwobi man—the one who had eaten like he was preparing for war,
the same man who had nearly baptized the bus with pepper soup—stood
up. No panic. No noise. He just started walking toward Abel.
Abel
raised his gun. “Stop there!”
The
man didn’t stop.
Then
came the clicks. Guns cocked from everywhere. Some pointed at Abel.
Some at the nkwobi man. We froze. I held my breath. Rejoice grabbed
my arm. The quiet man beside me pulled her close.
The
nkwobi man kept walking. No fear. No rush. He reached Abel, looked
him in the eye, and pulled out a badge.
Police.
Abel
blinked. His boys hesitated. Sirens followed—low at first, then
louder. Flashlights. Shouts. Uniforms came out of the shadows.
We
were surrounded again—but this time, by salvation.
Abel
couldn’t move. His boys couldn’t run. They were
outnumbered.
And
the man we laughed at—the one we mocked—was the one who
saved us.
He
didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just turned and walked
back to his seat like nothing happened.
And
I sat there thinking: I had laughed at a man who carried a badge.
And
sat beside a man who carried a gun.
The
bus was quiet again. The robbers were gone. Abel was gone. The police
had done their job, and the night felt like it had exhaled. People
were still shaken, but slowly, the tension began to melt.
I
looked around. Faces I hadn’t noticed before now felt familiar.
Survivors. Witnesses. Travelers.
The
old man who had sat quietly the whole journey—never spoke,
never moved much—was still there. He hadn’t reacted
during the preaching, the poop crisis, or the robbery. Just sat
there, like he’d seen it all before.
I
looked at Rejoice. She was staring out the window, her face calm, but
her eyes carried something deeper. I leaned in.
“You
good?”
She
nodded. “I’m just thinking.”
“About
what?”
She
paused. “Everything.”
We
didn’t talk much after that. Just sat there, side by side,
letting the silence speak. The blue light still glowed above us, soft
and steady. I could feel the weight of the journey behind us—and
something else. Something warm.
We
reached Cross River just as the sun began to stretch over the
horizon. People started gathering their bags, stretching, yawning,
thanking God.
I
stood up, turned to Rejoice. “It was nice talking with you.”
She
smiled. “Same here.”
Then
she pointed to the quiet man beside me. “That’s my dad.”
I
blinked. “Wait—him?”
She
nodded. “Yeah. He’s a pastor too.”
I
looked at him. He smiled gently, like he’d known all along. I
smiled back, stunned. All this time, I’d been sitting beside
her father. The man who didn’t give the offering. The man who
stayed calm through everything.
“My
dad’s a pastor too,” I said.
She
laughed. “You told me… Maybe we were meant to sit
together.”
I
didn’t say anything. I just nodded, feeling something settle in
my chest.
The
journey was over.
But
something had started.
Weeks
later, when it was time to travel back to Lagos, I found myself again
at the bustling bus park in Cross River State. The familiar noise,
the mix of smells—fufu frying, exhaust smoke, and the chatter
of travelers preparing for the long journey home.
I
walked up to the counter to pay for another luxurious bus. The woman
behind the desk barely looked up. “Lagos?” she asked.
I
nodded.
Then
I saw him.
The
nkwobi man.
Same
plates of pepper soup, same mischievous grin. The sergeant in plain
clothes, blending perfectly into the crowd, doing what he did
best—living life unapologetically, even while carrying the
weight of so much responsibility.
I
didn’t laugh.
I
just watched.
He
caught my eye, raised his bottle slightly like a toast, then went
back to his meal. No badge. No uniform. Just a man eating nkwobi like
the world was fine.
I
smiled.
Because
now I knew: in Nigeria, you never really know who’s who. The
man you laugh at might be the one who saves your life. And the girl
you meet on a bus might be the daughter of the quiet man beside you.
I
boarded the bus, found my seat, plugged in my charger, and leaned
back.
The
blue lights came on.
And
the journey began again with so many stories to tell when I returned…
