I thought I would be in Ife by 1pm as I already promised a
friend. I got to the park at some minutes past 11am and as I saw the empty bus
that is to be the next bus going to Ife, I hesitated but the driver said, ‘’no
worry, one bus just comot from here now, soon passengers go soon fill am.’’ I
was a fool to believe him.
I sat down in the bus for like ten minutes and true to his
words, a man came in. Fat, wearing a Rick Ross t-shirt, having blood-shot eyes
and black lips that testified of smoking. I nodded to him, I don’t know why I
did, out of courtesy perhaps or just to buy myself some insurance peradventure
hell broke loose. That wasn’t enough though, I moved my bag two seats backward
to put more space between me and uncle Rozay; that was the biggest mistake of
all.
Twenty minutes into
the move, a middle-aged dark skinned woman boarded the bus with large dry
cow-skin in tow. The smell filled the bus like a wave from the incinerator, I
quickly covered my nose and turned back to see flies perch on the dry ponmo.
More than I pitied the would-be eaters for probable diarrhea, I pitied myself for
being stuck with the terrible smell when the bus was still as good as empty.
The woman came to sit by me, I could not change seats again and when she saw my
hand stamped forcibly on my nose, she said, ‘’Anh anh aunty, it’s not smelling
now, ko run….’’ I nodded but my hands remained where they were.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, the time read twelve and no other
passenger came in. Mallams came by to sell their watches, Ice-cream boys, bread
sellers and candy sellers. One candy seller was foolish enough to drop his
stuff with uncle Rozay at the front saying he would soon be back. Uncle Rozay
nodded, he took two sachets of candies, looked back and saw my unapprovingly
face. He shrugged and said ‘’what? Na for free I go watch am?’’ the woman
beside me said in a whisper, ‘’Ole.’’ Something that must not be said in an
octave pitch. I caught her cue and returned my own face to its default settings
- that which was irritated by ponmo smell, not shop-lifting.
Twelve- twenty, a fine man in a shirt and plead trousers
came in - not too fine but would do for sapiosexuals- and sat in the passenger’s
seat. Two minutes into his arrival, he was complaining about the empty seats.
He called someone on the phone, asking for an alternative bus that plies the Ife
route. The person at the other line didn’t seem to have a solution. He was
still on the phone when an old man in sneakers arrived wanting to share the
passengers’ seat with him. The younger man allowed the old man in. he sat in
the front contented, and I made the mental note to count. Five. Almost good.
I watched as the driver and the conductor depleted from
shouting ‘’Ile-Ife, Ile-Ife, Ile-Ife...’’ To ‘’le-fe, le-fe, le-fe,’’
swallowing the I’s in a hurry as the sun shone furiously down on them. Their
efforts seemed to all be in vain because all the people arriving in the park
were traveling to Ibadan and slowly the Ibadan bus was filling up for the
second time since I came.
The old man in the front noticed this and whatever comfort
he felt at the front was lost as he dove for the Ibadan bus. I cursed the
sneakers that made him walk away his loyalty.
Then we became four. Horrible.
Two passengers came in after then, like a way of the
universe complementing its loss. A boy and a girl, holding hands and unashamed
of their public display of affection. They sat next to uncle Rozay and giggled
and nibbled on their ice-creams while uncle Rozay watched. I feared for their
souls.
At quarter to two, I became apprehensive, I was supposed to
be in Ife by now and so I shouted at the driver ‘’Oga, what happened to
‘passengers go soon fill am.’?’’ He smiled, those brown teeth that had endured
countless years of cola displayed to cajole me, ‘’Anh, anh, aunty, have
patience now. Enh, be mama patience.’’ That didn’t help, I hissed, brought out
a book to read but the ponmo smell won’t let me.
The Ibadan bus departed and that showered in some heavenly
blessings. A boy came in, wouldn't sit until the bus was ready to leave because
of the smell and so he dropped his bag. But still, we were seven. Another man
came in with his travelling bag on his shoulder, eight. A girl in long braids
came in, nine. A girl with badly bleached skin who would rather join Ife bus
than be the first in the next Ibadan bus came in, ten.
And then, the showers of blessings stopped. The young man in
the passenger’s seat asked the driver if he could leave now and forfeit the
remaining four, the driver said, ‘’no way! He go full Oga, patience.’’
With patience, at ten minutes to three, two people came in.
then, we became twelve. Then, the ponmo woman beside me received a call, ‘’Oloribuku!’’
she barked into the phone, ‘’you better bring me my money or Sango will fire
you!’’ everyone turned back to see the woman. She shrugged, unapologetic and
then turned to tell a sorry tale about a customer that my impatient ears just
won’t hear.
While she told her tale, a woman with a crying baby came in.
we were thirteen and so, the girl with the badly bleached skin opted to pay for
the last seat. I was glad and grateful to her, only to learn that the
lovey-dovey boy at the front wasn’t travelling to Ife. Uncle Rozay became mad,
he growled in all his maleness, the boy fled for his life.
It was then that I remembered that I wanted to buy bread for
my eager friend back in Ife. I alighted the bus, happy for the fresh air I
breathed in. I came back to see that two passengers had come. The bus wanted to
leave without me. I took a page out of uncle Rozay’s book and roared, shouted
and defended my right to be on that bus. I was surprised to see uncle Rozay
take my side. I took my rightful seat while I pitied the man who had to wait
for another bus of Ife. ‘’May he have better luck than I did,’’ I prayed.
And so it was, at three-thirty pm, the bus roared to life,
waves of fresh air gushed in, and mama ponmo said, ‘’let us pray…,’’
