The sky above Vacoas was dark and heavy, this made me undecided about the trip. Grey clouds hung over Trou aux Cerfs, the dormant volcano in the distance, while soft mist danced around the mountaintops, it never stops raining over here, it seems. I had just left a quiet café, my journal tucked under one arm, so grateful for this unexpected solo escape to Mauritius. The breathtaking beauty of the Island made it worth the while.
Juliana, my friend, had recommended a local bus route from Vacoas to Curepipe through the scenic volcanic ridge.
“You’ll love it, it’s very beautiful." she had said.
Those words replayed in my head as I boarded the half-empty bus, I could already envisage the vastness of the tree filled dormant volcano with a beautiful lake.
The driver gave a nod. “Curepipe?” he asked.
I nodded and dropped a few rupees in the fare box.
As the bus rumbled to life and merged onto La Brasserie Road, I settled comfortably near the back and pulled out my journal to make an entry. But I turned as a man slid into the seat next to mine. I hadn’t seen him get on.
Afternoon," I offered with a polite nod.
He smiled, slowly.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Long road, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I replied curtly. I actually wasn't in the mood for a chit chat.
A silence settled.
Then he said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I blinked severally before finally focusing on him.
He was tall, European, with a sharp, hawk-like eyes. His shirt was a white linen turtle neck.
I stared at him. His face was unfamiliar. I’d remember someone like that, with a voice so calm, and a gaze that seemed to reach inside of you.
“No, I don’t think we’ve met.”
He leaned forward, like he wanted to whisper something to me.
“We have, just not in the way you're used to remembering things.”
“Look,” I said, half-laughing, half-serious, “I’m not really in the mood for riddles, okay....em Mr...?"
Call me Malick,” he said, " but the name does not really matter.”
“Alright, Malick, What do you want?”
“To warn you,” he said simply.
“To warn me? About what?”
He smiled again. “What can possibly go wrong?”
“What?”
“That’s what you said before getting on the bus.” He gestured at my journal, which sat closed in my lap. “You wrote it down. Page twenty, left corner.”
My stomach tightened. I had written that down this afternoon before boarding the bus, but the page number? I hadn't taken note of that. And right now the journal rested on my laps.
I quickly flipped it open, hands suddenly cold.
There it was.
Page 20. “What can possibly go wrong?”
“How do you know that?” I whispered.
“I told you,” he said. “We’ve met before.”
Before I could answer, he reached out and gently closed my journal.
“Okay, Malick. Do you always approach strangers on buses?”
He leaned in, his smile fading. “Only when it matters.”
Outside, Curepipe Botanic Garden was already slipping by, the trees blurred by motion and thick fog.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Alright, so why does it matter now?”
“Because this isn’t your first time on this road.” He said, voice quiet, “
“What are you talking about?” That I was no longer finding the conversation funny was very obvious.
“You’ve taken this route before,” he said, looking straight at me.
“For your information, I’ve never been to Mauritius before, this is actually my first time.”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “That’s what you think.”
He continued. “You weren’t supposed to take this journey, something waits at the end of this road, something you left behind.”
I was beginning to regret speaking to him, but something held me frozen, his voice had become deeper now, not in tone, but in meaning. I felt like I was being transported back to the past.
“W-hat?”
"Try to remember.” he said cryptically.
The bus took a turn. From the window, I could see Sainte Thérèse Church half concealed by mist, a flock of doves on the spire took flight as we drew near. We must have disturbed the peace of the church.
Then I heard it, it was a low hum at first, then it grew louder, like an engine struggling, like... déjà vu.
“Wait,” I murmured with my heart pounding loud in my chest. “I remember there was a crash, there was one I read about. A bus crash near here, I think, but it happened many years ago.”
“Not read,” Malick corrected softly. “You were on it.”
“No no, that's not—” I croaked a protest.
“No?” Malick raised an eyebrow. “If you don't get off at the next stop, then the cycle begins again, the mistake, the regret, the crash.”
“The crash?” I asked, so confused.
He nodded. “Ten minutes from now, same as the last time.”
The driver announced something in French, something I couldn’t understand. But I knew we were pulling into a clearing, an unnamed stop near a cane field. The mist was very thick now, curling around the glass windows with its foggy fingers.
Malick turned to me one last time, finally so serious.
“You wrote it in your journal,” he said. “So ask yourself, what can possibly go wrong if you don't get off at the next stop?”
Suddenly I felt asphyxiated.
He stood up slowly, preparing to leave.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
"I'm stopping here."
Then he stepped off the bus.
I sat there frozen, undecided. Something in me screamed follow him, and something else whispered stay still.
I stood.
Grabbed my journal.
And ran after him.
But when I stepped into the cane field, he was gone.
No footprints.
No figure.
Only silence.
The bus pulled away.
Two minutes later, I heard it! The screeching of tyres, the screaming metal and then the explosion. I felt the vibration of the earth and the intensity of the conflagration.
I stood in disbelief, standing in the middle of the road, shocked beyond words.
But I was alive. I was alive.
Then I finally remembered.”
That night, back in my hotel in Vacoas, I pored over the city's archives, looking for any record of a crash that had happened on that road years ago.
One headline caught my eye:
"Girl Dies in Crash."
A chill ran through me as I clicked to see the name.
There it was—Ella Fitzgerald.
My breath caught.
Ella Fitzgerald?
She had my face.
My eyes.
And then it hit me.
I am Ella Fitzgerald.
Last night I had dreamed of that road, of the bus, of the crash and of a stranger who came out of nowhere to save me from it......the second time.
I generated the images using AI.
🌸My Motto is work at making yourself proud of yourself.🌸
Thank you very much for taking time to read me. Have a wonderful day!