I made a decision to endure the urge to urinate.
As I sat rigid in my seat, thighs pressed together and jaw clenched, a memory surfaced—soft, unexpected, and oddly comforting. My grandmother's voice echoed clearly in my mind, as though she were seated beside me.
I could still picture myself at five years old, restless and panicking, announcing that I could not hold my urine while we were still twenty minutes away from school. I remembered her calm expression, her unhurried tone.
"Adillia," she had said, "put a little saliva on your hand and rub it on your navel."
Silly as it sounded, I obeyed.
And it worked.
Believe it or not, that same childhood remedy became my instant salvation. With as much discretion as the crowded bus allowed, I repeated the ritual.
At that precise moment, the young man seated beside me burst into laughter.
Heat rushed to my face as embarrassment wrapped itself around me. He looked at me, eyes bright with amusement, and said, "You really are an interesting individual."
I couldn't tell whether it was a compliment or a gentle mockery. Still, I looked at him and replied, "Thanks," flashing a wide smile that exposed every tooth I owned.
The moment the words left my mouth, I mentally knocked myself on the head.
Adillia, that was a thoroughly unsettling response.
But self-criticism could wait. My primary concern was regaining a sense of physical comfort.
The saliva trick provided mild relief—but not enough.
Just when desperation began to tighten its grip, fate intervened. As if the heavens had reconsidered their earlier hostility, the driver slowed the bus and pulled over near a small, bushy stretch along the roadside.
"Who is the girl that wanted to urinate?" he asked. "You can go now."
Joy surged through me so powerfully that I nearly screamed.
"Driver, thank you!" I shouted. "God will bless you for me!"
He opened the door, and I practically leapt out.
Fear quickly followed excitement. I was acutely aware of my surroundings and the dangers they could conceal. I refused to venture deep into the bushes. Instead, I remained close to the road, unconcerned with who might be watching from the bus. Embarrassment had already peaked—there was no dignity left to preserve.
Once I was done, I returned to the vehicle, reclaimed my seat, and exhaled deeply as the door closed and the journey resumed.
Out of caution—and a sudden surge of wisdom—I decided not to consume the remaining meat pie, apple, or the extra takeaway of jollof rice I had bought earlier. The possibility of a more disastrous bodily emergency was one humiliation I was unwilling to risk.
My phone battery hovered at a fragile twenty percent. In a moment of tragic forgetfulness—possibly the aftermath of excessive Chinese dramas after my exams—I had neglected to connect my power bank. To make matters worse, it was buried deep within my luggage.
I needed to conserve power. I would need my phone to contact my aunt upon arrival.
So, I chose conversation.
I turned to the young man beside me, lifted my hand slightly, and smiled.
"Hi. My name is Adillia. What's yours?" I said. "Since we're seated together, I thought it might be nice to know who I'm sharing this journey with."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
"Well, well—drama queen," he replied. "My name is Elvis. It's nice to meet you. You've provided excellent entertainment for this entire bus."
We both burst into laughter.
Then he added, "Pretty."
I repeated the word silently in my mind.
Pretty.
What an impressive promotion—from drama queen to pretty.
As he continued speaking, he asked, "Is this your first time traveling to Abuja?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'm going for the holidays. What about you?"
"I just concluded NYSC camp," he said. "I was posted to Keffi. My sister lives in Abuja, so I'll stay with her tonight. Tomorrow, I resume service in Keffi."
I nodded, impressed.
"Oh, nice," I said. "So you're a corper—Tinubu pikin."
We laughed again.
Then, out of idle curiosity, I checked my phone.
And that was when the unexpected happened.