The bus was not luxurious yet not rickety, but it was charming. The seats were faded and tilted backward somewhat, giving passengers some relief. She managed to smile weakly. The People around her spoke under their breath, some asleep, some speaking gently. An old lady whistled an incantation under her tongue, and a youth carried a tray of fried plantains balanced on his knee, vending them silently. Olivia offered him an appreciative nod, and he smiled back at her.
The elation before her journey buzzed around her veins. She stretched out, closing her eyes for a moment, visualizing the journey's end in Enugu. Tidy streets, tidy lodges, well-clothed corper colleagues with good breed, rooms that smelled of polish and chalk. There were tidy clothes, her notebook, and little memories of home packed into her hand bag that she carried with her while on the journey. She would take out things methodically, straighten up all things, and into a neat well-ordered universe she imagined.
Her mind was on the school where she was to teach. Community Secondary School, Enugu . The name was almost civilized, almost secure. She imagined herself around the staffroom, introducing herself graciously, speaking confidently, charming one's socks off with her Lagos flair. A tiny confident smile shaped around her mouth as she imagined the pupils receiving her open-armed, taken aback by the poise and flair she possessed even clad in khaki.
Time crawled. The bus creaked as it got moving,and Olivia was observing the outskirts of Benin slipping by, small stores, dust, roaming dogs, women carrying goods on their heads. Every moment reminded her that transportation was an adventure, somewhat unpredictable but strangely exciting.
The bus rocked to the beat of each pothole, and the spark of excitement was shared by Olivia. The case shifted on the floor as she secured her bag, pulling the handles closer. The exhaust smell was coupled with the scent from the fried yam sold by one of the vendors that had boarded the previous stop. Olivia chuckled low, shaking her head. "By the time I reach Enugu, I'll have tales to tell," she said under her breath.
She quietly stared around at the other commuters. The old lady occasionally made muttering prayers to herself, while a man with a somewhat worn suit busy himself dialing away on his phone. A girl with headphones rocked her head from side to side to the beat of the music, unaware of the shaking bus. Olivia examined them all, letting herself wonder what their lives were like. Perhaps they all had journeys like hers, some pulsating, some load-burdened, somewhat unavoidable.
Her mind went back to Lagos, her mother making a scene over her bag, her friends jeering and laughing, the finishing meals she had eaten, the smells of her streets. At some point she was feeling homesick but she tried to repress the feelings. She had come this far, and could not at this point she afford to do that.
The bus bounced over a patch on the road, and she clutched the rim of her seat, the hum sounding through her bones. She pictured the worst things that could happen for an instant: busted-down buses, wayward luggage, late arrival. She rattled herself out of it. She was Olivia Amadi, Lagosian, queen of traffic, sun, disorder of her city. She was resilient enough to weather some rough spots on an unusually rough road.
Hours went by like this, Olivia dozed of at intervals, her eyes open wide to watch the scene flashing by the bus window. Small villages appeared from time to time, the children waving as the bus rattled by, the women yelling hello, the men loaded packages on their heads. Every minute was like viewing the kind of world she had only read from books.
She undid her case for an instant, re-packing her things so nothing had changed positions during the journey. Her book, packed neatly next to her clothes, hummed with excitement, as she felt it would spill out letters before very long. Smiling to herself, she imagined what she would pen: the face, the din, the crowd, and even the disasters that invariably occurred before her.
Every so often the conductor yelped out from the front, yelling at passengers and stuffs like that. Olivia didn't even hear, so focused she was. She smiled elegantly when spoken to, raised an eyebrow, and went back to gazing out the window, imagining the well-planned streets of Enugu she hoped were waiting for her. With the sun fast approaching darkness, the sky deepened to hues of purple, red, and orange. The sun lowered itself slowly, casting shadows lengthwise over the countryside. Olivia felt the slow pace of the bus, the thrumming hum from the motor, and the rhythmical jounce over bumpy roads unwind her. She breathed herself a tiny exhale out, sitting all the way back with her eyes closed. She was going, she was good, she was going.
The other passengers became mute during the night. Some slept, some chattered quietly among themselves, and some gazed out the window, absorbed. A sense of serenity was settling over Olivia. The ride, she was convinced, would be unremarkable. She had primed herself, packed, and made preparations. All was good. Even she had pictured herself disembarking the bus in Enugu, luggage in hand, smiling graciously from the natives.
Her thoughts went one step further, imagining her first school week like organizing her items, introducing herself to the principal, befriending the rest of the male corpers even perhaps teasing the students sportingly to demonstrate her authority. She envisioned herself strolling around the class confidently, charming all the individuals effortlessly with her Lagos swag. It was cozy, even head-reeling, to think of the type of life she had in prospect.
But deep down, however, there was an inkling, however weak, of doubt,a doubt she hardly registered amid-st the excitement. But she set it aside. Lagos had schooled her to push, to dominate the environment, to be resilient under all circumstances. This small mess was never going to ruin her well plotted plot.
The bus groaned into the darkness, wheels humming steadily, the people still and far away in their thoughts. Olivia slipped even farther down, buckling the strap on her bag and closing her eyes all the way. She gave herself over to visions of her Enugu lodge's comfy mattress, fresh sheets, dead halls, disciplined existence she would have. The swaying, the muted conversation, the humming motor formed an anthem she hardly dared.
Hours passed. Olivia was between sleep and waking, the country flashing by under darkness, occasionally broken by the narrow forms of small fires or lamps. She was soothed, secure, sure. Every jar, every turn, each small jounce was the rhythm she'd learned to rely on.
Somehow in her head, she replayed the good-byes, the teasing, the advice, the cheering she had been given. The mother she had, her friends she had said good-bye to, the little comforts from home she had packed. Pride welled up inside her: she had come this far. She was on the bus, still going, having the adventure she had dreamed of for weeks. It was getting dark. Her head was placed tenderly on the seat, eyes half-closed, her thoughts periodically between the excitement she was feeling and sleep. Somewhere down the road she was certain led to Enugu, the road she was on began to curve the direction she couldn't see. But for now, all was well with Olivia, secure, fast asleep.