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Fiction
Bus
Passengers
a short story by
Ifesinachi
Okoli
Rain on a
Monday morning is...bad luck.
For some, it
portends a premonition of doom, especially if
you had an incorrigible boss you had to hide
from, a spouse you had betrayed or someone you
could not stop lying to. After the excitement of
the night before, the deep dreamless sleep, it
was mortifying to wake up on a work day to the
sound of rain drops hammering away on zinc
roofs, the characteristic sound like the quick
march of a hundred soldiers. Usually, the sound
would have brought unconscious dreamy smiles to
many sleep-deep faces if it had been 2a.m in the
morning, but by 6a.m, disgruntled faces left
their beds. And because the electricity had
disappeared sometime in the night, hands groped
about in the blind hoping to feel the smooth
slender body of a candle stick.
Tunde, like
many others woke up late and after preparing for
the office, he made a brave decision to enter
the heavy rain. The clock on the wall read
6:30a.m when he made his decision. He grabbed
his small black umbrella and with his folio
tucked under his armpit, he opened the door. To
his dismay, the front of his house was flooded
and the drops of rain lashed at him with a
vengeance. Despite the rain, soft white light
had kissed the once dark cloud introducing dawn.
Grunting, he
folded up his trousers and locked the door
behind him. He plunged into the semi-darkness
gasping as the cold seeped into his blood and
the wetness made his shirt cling to his skin.
Despite the umbrella, he was drenched in
minutes.
The water
level had risen almost to his knees; he couldn’t
make out the gutters but avoided them by
instinct. He had once fallen into a flooded
gutter and the memory still gave him nightmares.
A terrible stench assailed his nostrils and he
noticed that the dustbin that served most people
in the area was overflowing. Most of the garbage
had fallen into the water and bits of trash
floated past him including a dead rat that
almost touched his leg before he noticed it and
jumped forward. There were several crawly white
things on the bin and several of them swam
happily in the green coloured water.
Maggots.
Tunde cringed.
He thought he was going to be sick. He waded
through the water out into the main road and
squeezed some water from out his pants. The
streets were empty except for two women who
huddled close underneath a spoilt umbrella in a
mechanic workshop. They too were shivering like
Tunde and speaking in loud Yoruba language.
Tunde was
lucky as a motorcyclist in a yellow raincoat
came riding by. Dashing into the street, he
flagged him down before the women could. The
women rained abuses at him, calling him a lazy
man in their local language. Tunde paid them no
heed. This was the latest he had ever been on
the way to his office. It was a new job he had
resumed three months ago. To his surprise, his
boss had developed an instant dislike for him
and enjoyed barking at him over every little
mistake. She was a middle-aged single woman who
behaved as if she was always on her period. It
was so easy for Tunde to rile her that he had
tried to stay off her path for most of his time
spent in the office and this day, he had no
intention of getting on her black list on a wet
Monday morning.
“Alakija bus
stop,” he told the motorcyclist and hopped on
without bargaining the price. He knew it would
be a waste of time as the motorcyclist had an
upper hand in the dreary weather.
Five minutes
later, Tunde got to the bus stop. The
motorcyclist called a price four times the usual
price. Tunde spread his five fingers at him in a
familiar gesture of insult. As he gave the
motorcyclist the money, Tunde continued mumbling
calling him a good-for-nothing thief. The
motorcyclist grinned, pocketed his money and
drove away. He was left standing in the rain.
It was now
broad daylight and some people were huddled
under roofs. There were few vehicles on the
road. Only bus conductors braved the rain,
yelling their destinations into the wet morning.
“CMS last bus!
CMS last bus!” a conductor yelled close to his
ears.
Tunde dashed
into the bus to escape the rain. In annoyance,
he folded his umbrella that had proved as useful
as a pencil on a farm. The bus was empty. He was
sure that the other buses had left and this was
the last one heading his way. He wondered how
anybody could have managed to rise up earlier
than he had in the crazy weather but thought to
himself that this was Lagos. Crazier things
happened even without the rain.
One by one,
the familiar faces he had grown accustomed to
meeting at the bus stop trickled in. The man
that preached every morning came in next. Tunde
almost groaned aloud when he recognised the navy
blue button down coat with short sleeves. The
man climbed in front, wiping his dripping face
with a chequered handkerchief.
“Good morning,
my brother,” he said to Tunde.
“Good morning,
Sir,” Tunde replied, trying not to notice the
thick dark curls on the man’s arms.
“Thank you, my
brother. God bless you.”
The man
promptly launched into a familiar worship song
singing out of tune but with such reverence that
Tunde felt that he ought to bow his head and
join him.
Worthy...you are worthy...King of Kings, Lord of
Lords, I worship you...
The Yoruba
woman came after the preacher. Everyone knew her
as the Yoruba woman. From the long gashes across
her cheeks to the haphazard way she tied her
head tie and her thick Ibadan accent, it was
quite easy to know. She was usually one of the
early comers except she might have decided to
sleep in today. She sat down beside the
preacher, frowning up at him and moving her big
bottom about on the chair to create more space
for herself.
“Ah conductor,
come and whyne up your window-o. This
rain is toushing me, abi?” The bus
conductor did not hear her as he was still
shouting his bus stop so she poked her head
through the window and yelled at him some more.
“Olori
burukun!” she cursed and was finally rewarded
when the conductor did as she asked. She cradled
her head in her hand in boredom. Few minutes
later, she was nodding off in sleep.
The others
came almost simultaneously until the bus was
full. There was the UBA man who always had the
logo of the bank where he worked pinned onto his
breast pocket. UBA man was tall and handsome and
was so polite that it infuriated Tunde. To
Tunde, UBA man was one of the men spoiling men’s
reputation before women and that was why women
expected so much for men these days.
Like Sade, his
girlfriend who always wanted him to call three
times a day (especially at night before she went
to bed), pull out a chair for her to sit down
and hold her hands in public. It had been the
reason for their last quarrel and she still had
not called since a week ago.
Tunde snorted.
A short young
man came in next carrying a carton containing a
DVD player. He did not say anything to anyone;
just climbed in and sat still. It was until he
answered his phone that Tunde knew that he was a
trader in the popular Lagos market. Most of his
conversations were spoken in Igbo language and
the rest in pidgin English.
Aisha came in
next. Her house was not far from Tunde’s. Her
aged parents ran a shop attached to the front of
their house. She was a shy lady who hardly
talked much. Tunde knew that she was married but
her husband had been out of the country since
the marriage. Nobody knew why and nobody thought
to ask any question. She greeted Tunde, looked
around and satisfied that she did not recognise
any other person stuck ear phones into her ears
and launched into silence.
Tunde noticed
an old Toyota Camry draw up in front of the bus.
A plump fair woman got out, waved to the man
driving and dashed into the bus. Then the car
continued down the street splashing water on the
side walks.
“Good morning
oh. Good morning,” she greeted everyone in her
loud squeaky voice. Tunde noticed there were
patches of white on her face and the dark
smudges on her cheeks she had hidden cleverly
below layers of make-up were starting to show.
Her curly hair was wet, plastered on her cheeks
but her lips remained a bright caked red as if
she had smudged red foundation powder on them.
The Yoruba woman in front woke up, startled and
turned around. Her frown quickly melted into a
smile.
“Madam Eunice,
how na?” the Yoruba woman asked.
“Fine. Iya
Bosede, how work?”
“We thank God.
Your husban’ and shidren?”
“They are
fine. My husband just dropped me off. He dey go
work.” Madam Eunice’s voice reflected pride. She
continued, “this rain, eh? I told my children to
stay at home. No school for them. Market go dey
today, sef?”
“Ah, market
must dey, Madam Eunice. Market must dey. Na
market me I dey go.”
“Ok. I did not
want to go to work but if I stay at home with
those children, I will grow grey hair,” Madam
Eunice stated, her fingers fluttering delicately
in the air.
“Abi oh?”
Madam Eunice
continued her idle chatter while Iya Bosede,
apparently used to the annoying voice and tired
of it, replied her with casual nods. When she
could take it no more, she joined the preacher
in his song. Madam Eunice took her cue and shut
up. Feeling odd then, she too joined in the
worship song.
When the
pretty slim girl arrived, Tunde could not help
but stare at her. He had met her at the bus stop
only once before and had not tried talking to
her because she had that air of arrogance about
her that announced that she knew she was
beautiful. She wore a turquoise blue shirt now
dark blue in some patches that showed off
tantalizing runs of smooth brown skin. The UBA
man got out of the bus when he saw her to allow
her come in first before he did. Tunde noticed
that though they mumbled a greeting to each
other, she tried hard to avoid him touching her.
The pretty girl entered and sat beside Tunde in
the backseat so she was sandwiched between Tunde
and the UBA man.
“Nneka, you
didn’t reply my greeting,” UBA man said to the
pretty girl when they were seated. Tunde was
trying not to gaze at her rain tightened shirt.
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