Journey To Savour

I’ve just arrived at this bus terminal in an eastern town. I’m on my way to Lagos State. Aagh, Lagos. They say it never sleeps. With all the lovely shops and colorful taxis. I’m clad in some recent purchase, a new sweat shirt and lovely jeans. I’m feeling expensive. I’m travelling with a small bag and a medium-sized ‘ghana-must-go’ (a tote bag). The attendants at the booth ask for a tip to load the ‘ghana-must-go’. On meeting their request, their ‘thank you’ is very subdued. They must have budgeted for a lot more.

I got into the bus. I had bought my ticket the day before. Seat no.5. A window seat. I always go for window seats. That way, I can view the scenery outside as we drive past. Most of all, I control the opening or closing of the window. That checks any unforeseen catarrh or cold. Nice idea, don’t you think? Haha.

The bus is on its way. There’s a man standing on the gangway. He’s holding a megaphone. In a luxury bus? Is this happening?’Praiseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee the Lord’. Hallelujah. Oh no. Not so loud. “All the children of the living God inside this bus, praiseeeeeeeeehseeeee the Lord”. ‘Hallelujah’ is the deafening reply.

I turn to my window and look outside. Problem is, nobody cares about the next man when it comes to issues of religion. How can you use a megaphone inside an air-conditioned bus? Isn’t that a definite sign of lunacy? Mr preacher has noticed my reluctance at joining the chorus of his verses. He starts casting out minions of darkness ‘in this bus’. He calls them agents of Lucifer, witches and wizards, mermaids and tortoises. He comes next to my seat, and starts a chorus, which he insists every child of God must join in. Me, give in to cheap blackmail? I bury my face in my newspaper. Haha. Agent of Lucifer confirmed. The rest of his preaching, with megaphone and all, is hurled at my seat. I have to check my auditory nerves on my return.

Preaching is over. He says he is about to drop off the bus. He passes envelopes to all the passengers. Me (agent me) included. Guess money from a child of God and any other, it’s all money, right? I refuse to collect his envelope. He mumbles under his breadth about stingy ritualists. Hehehe.

Next off, is an itinerant drug seller. A mobile pharmacy. He says he has a drug for those who can’t engage in a 10-round sexual bout. He has a special drug for Staphylococcus, gonococcus and all other coccuses. Even the inner caucus. Registration number? It’s on the way, he claimed.

At our stop in Delta State, we all come down. I don’t usually eat on my travels, so I’m drinking my water and digging into my paper when my seatmate asks me to hold her novel, she wanted to relieve herself. A man sitting behind noticed this and comes to warn me. He says most women one sees in buses are agents (guess there are just too many agents in this country). He shares his cousin’s experience.

The cousin was a student. He had lost his mum. He went to see their elder brother in Lagos State. The brother gave him N200,000 to go back to the village and start making arrangements, that he’ll be on his way the next week. The guy boards a night bus. His seat was at the extreme. His seatmate was a young lady. Along the way, still in Lagos, they start fondling themselves. Somehow, she drugged him or so he said. The guy awoke in the town of Onitsha. He started looking for his seatmate frantically, whom had dropped at the tollgate in Lagos. He even had a new seatmate. All he had left was N1000, which he had kept separate. So, lets say he fondled this babe for N200,000, but got a discount of a thousand Naira. Hehehe. Wonders.

I’m putting on a straight face by the time my seatmate returns. Even when she wants me to buy sausage roll through the window at our next stop in Ore Town, I collect the money without looking at her. Sorry sis, but they’ve got us believing there’s terror everywhere. You could be duped, drugged or even made to disappear.

Ahh, we’re now in Lagos City. Fear of the known and unknown makes everybody board taxis, rather than buses. You could be robbed and thrown out of buses. Oh dear, when will one be able to close his eyes in this city? To borrow a cliché from Ben Okri, ‘that’s a riddle for the gods’.

Nnamdi Wabara.