"Madam, can you tell that man to stop following our bus?"
That was what came out of the conductor's mouth that everyone looked towards the left window side. I was sitting in the front and had to look back to see if we were being followed by someone, but it was an empty road except for the red dust being raised by our tyres.
It was some minutes past eight on a Sunday morning, and I was travelling to visit my sister in Ibadan. I had missed the first bus because I left home a bit late, and a lot of people tend to travel on Sunday morning. By the time I got to the park, there was only one bus left. The driver kept saying we should enter quickly to avoid some police on the road, which might cause delay.
There were eight passengers, including a pregnant woman and a kid, and one other Hausa man with a lot of loads who had wasted our time before agreeing to the price the driver gave him. The bus conductor collected the money from the front seat, slammed the door, and we hit the road.
We passed some road side shops and street hawkers and a young woman spreading some fresh bread into trays. Soon, all the buildings were left behind, as we got to the side of the the only thing visible were the tree and patches of bush. The driver began to play some old Fuji music that I was vibing to.
That was when I saw her.
There was this woman who stood besides a narrow footpath ahead, wearing a brown Ăłfi wrapper and a white blouse that looked unusually clean for a road that is so dusty like that. On her left hand was a black handbag she held against her waist, and she raised one hand to stop our driver.
The driver also saw her and began to slow down, but the conductor who sat directly at my back leant forward.
“Don't stop! Keep driving!”
As we passed, the woman lowered her hand. Sitting at the front, I saw her face through the side mirror. She was not frowning, nor was she smiling. She looked like someone who has been waiting there for long, and seeing us also looked like she had seen someone she had been expecting.
Then the conductor turned towards us.
“Did you people see her?”
Before anyone opened their mouth to give a response, he replied, "That woman has been following us."
Nobody gave a funny expression. The Hausa man who also understood what he said began saying some things, while the young lady who sat besides me was mumbling some players. I looked through the back window this time, but there was nothing behind us.
I faced the conductor and asked:
“Who is she?”
The conductor did as if he did not hear what I said.
Just a few minutes after that, the driver braked all of a sudden, and all of us shouted as we lurched forward. Besides, the road was this same woman. Still carrying the same handbag that was held against her waist. She raised her again and again to stop us.
I was terribly confused as I stared at her, terribly confused about how she had gotten there. The road was straight ahead; there were no u-turns to say she had crossed us, and no vehicle has gone ahead of us.
The driver kept all the doors closed. He said some few words I did not understand and accelerated. No one said anything until we all got to the city car park, and it had gotten dark this time.
Then the conductor finally gave an explanation of what I asked.
Some months back, a woman just like the one we saw with that handbag had boarded their bus along the same road. When they stopped at the destination, she gave them them; she was nowhere to be found in the bus. They searched everywhere in the bush, but they could not see anything. Since then, the conductor said he had come across her more than twice.
I wanted to ask him why he did not warn us before entering the bus, but the sudden fear of what happened had made everything, including my question, feel useless.
When we finally entered the park, I got down so quickly. My legs felt shaky, and I was embarrassed by how badly I wanted to reach somewhere with a lot of crowds and bright lights.
As I was trying to walk out of the park, the conductor called me.
"Hey brother, you forgot your bag!"
I looked at him. He was still besides the bus, holding my crossbody bag.
For what I had just heard, I could not concentrate to remember to carry my bag. Then I went back, collected it and thanked him. He looked at me carefully before entering the bus.
I have never properly accessed what the conductor said that night. Maybe there was something still not clear to me.
But I still remember how I walked fast away from the bus that night, passing people who were laughing, trying to sell night markets as if nothing unusual had happened.
But I still remember how tightly I held my bag as I walked towards the main road, passing people who were laughing, buying roasted corn, and going about their evening as if nothing unusual had happened.
I envied them their ordinary night. For a little while, I had forgotten how comforting ordinary could be.
Thank you for reading.
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