It had only just started to stop raining in Lagos.
The roads were still damp and small puddles shone with the lights of passing cars. Buses were honking loudly as they pushed through the night traffic, vendors were setting their stalls in the road as people were setting up their stalls near the roadside.
Tunde was a 24-year-old man in a packed yellow bus on his way home from work. He was like everyone else, looking at his cell phone.
A woman next to him said: "No network again."
Tunde looked at the top corner of his screen. No signal.
He sighed. This had been occurring frequently recently.
The bus drove slowly in the traffic until it came to a long tunnel under a bridge. As always, all phones were out of service.
Tunde put his phone in his pocket and gazed out the window.
Next, his cell phone rang.
He frowned.
That was strange.
No signal available.
He took the cell phone from his pocket.
There was a text that had come.
From an unknown number of the issue.
The message was just 4 words!
Stay on the bus.
Tunde stared at it.
"What did he say was a joke? What was he muttering about being a joke?"
The woman by his side peeked over.
"Problem?"
"Nothing," he replied.
As the bus came out of the tunnel, the message was gone from the screen.
Tunde blinked.
He checked again.
Gone.
It would seem it never existed.
The remainder of the trip, he couldn't get this idea out of his head.
On that night he explained to his younger sister Amaka.
She laughed.
“It's possible some guy likes you.”
"Very funny."
"I'm serious."
Who is the person that is sending a message that says “Stay on the bus”?
Amaka shrugged.
"Maybe somebody strange."
Tunde laughed and all that he remembered had slipped away.
"At least that's what he tried."
The following day he took the same bus when he worked.
The traffic was as usual quite thick.
The bus came close to the tunnel.
Phones lost service.
After that, his cell phone began to shake.
Another message.
Don't leave at Ojota.
His heart skipped.
This was the usual stopping point of Ojota.
He glanced at the passengers in the bus.
No one appeared to be concerned with something amiss.
The message remained on the screen.
As the bus came out of the tunnel it was gone once more.
Tunde sat quietly.
The passengers stood up as they began to get out from Ojota.
Isn't it time for you to get down 'Tunde' asked a man he used to see on the route.
Tunde hesitated.
The mysterious message seemed to reverberate in his mind.
"Not today."
The man shrugged and walked away.
The bus continued.
They passed a major road closure at Ojota 20 minutes later. Traffic police were rerouting traffic as a fuel tanker had broken down and blocked several lanes.
The waiting time to pass was unpleasant.
Tunde looked out the window.
He would have been stranded there for hours, in search of another way home, if he had gotten off at his normal stop.
He was chilled to the bone.
The message had somehow found out.
That night he demonstrated Amaka.
“Saved the message?” she asked.
“No, it goes away each time."
Now she didn't seem so amused.
"That's creepy."
"I know."
Messages poured in for the week following until the bus returned to the tunnel.
Sometimes they were easy.
Bring a rain jacket to school tomorrow.
The next day heavy rain fell unexpectedly.
At times they were personal.
Please call mom tonight.
He called and his mother replied gladly that she had been trying to call him all day.
None of the messages requested funds.
They didn't threaten him in any way.
It appeared that they knew what to expect beforehand.
Tunde became obsessed.
"From whom were they coming?"
"How?"
One Saturday he decided to find out.
He arrived early to the tunnel and waited.
He walked around the area.
Nothing seemed unusual.
An old radio repair shop was located next door to them between two buildings.
The faded sign was older than Tunde.
He walked in and, he said, "I am curious."
A man was sitting behind a desk with several dusty objects and radios.
The old man smiled.
"Looking for something?"
"Maybe."
Tunde gave an account of the bizarre communications.
Slowly, the man's smile disappeared.
"When was it that they began?"
"Around 2 weeks ago."
The old man thoughtfully nodded.
He then gestured to a shelf.
An old radio transmitter was on it.
That was my brother's work," he said, "a long time ago.
"What does that have to do with me?"
He felt that signals were transmitted in the manner that people do not understand.
Tunde laughed nervously.
That doesn't make any sense.
The old man said, "No, my son. "It doesn't."
He leaned forward.
Sometimes explanations turn up after the signal, though.
Tunde was in a more puzzled state than when he began.
Days passed.
The messages continued.
One evening, when the bus was going into the tunnel, one last message came up.
Last message. "Thank you, Tunde."
His stomach tightened.
"Who are you?"
It was the first time there was an immediate response.
"If a friend needed to know you, he would listen."
Tunde quickly typed again.
"Will I ever have your name to know?"
Several seconds passed.
A second message was then sent.
There's no permanent signal.
The screen went blank.
The message disappeared.
And that's all.
Weeks became months.
No further enigmatic messages were received.
Things got back to normal.
But every night when his bus approached the tunnel, Tunde would still check his cell phone.
Nothing.
One night it rained and he went by the old radio shop again.
The building was not in use.
There was a sign set on the door.
Closed Permanently.
Tunde didn't move for a while.
The street was wet and the lights of the city could be seen.
Cars moved past.
People hurried home.
He had a strong cell signal on his cell phone.
But for the first time it seemed quieter than it ever had been.
He smiled quietly and walked on through the night of Lagos, not sure if there was anywhere out there, past all the noise of the city, where another signal was looking for someone else who was ready to listen.
