It was raining so hard and I was soaked to the bones by the time I got to the bus station.
I was traveling to the village for the weekend, to visit Uncle Ola who had been so sick, and hoped to return to the city by Sunday. At the terminal, I was late. I fumbled with my wet bag to retrieve my ticket when I collided into him. A young man, maybe my age, but taller and with more mature looks. Our papers flew, in the chaos, we grabbed what we could and ran toward our respective buses.
"Wait!" I heard him call out, breathless. "I think—"
But I didn't bother looking back because the bus was about leaving and the conductor was yelling my route. I panicked and boarded.
As the bus pulled away, I looked at the half-torn ticket in my hand. It wasn't mine. It was a different name, and the owner was meant to be on this bus. This was not my ticket neither was it my bus.
But it was too late.
The crash made the headlines the next morning;
Route V15 to Udu Rice field: Bus overturns into a pit. No survivors.
That was my bus.
I stood frozen. If I hadn’t grabbed his ticket, I’d be dead.
If he hadn’t gotten mine… he would be alive.
I tried to forget it. It was fate. What would be, would be....but how do you forget something like that?
Two weeks later, while I was working overtime in the office, it began.
It started small; My phone glitched at exactly 6:21 PM, the estimated time of the crash. The lights flickered non-stop. I heard soft footsteps in the hallway, but when I opened the door, nothing. This happened consistently and being alone in the office apartment, I became afraid and left for home.
Then came the dream.
I was on the bus, not the one I boarded but the one that crashed. Everyone was burning. Screaming. And I was watching, unharmed. Then suddenly a hand reached for me from the flames.
"Give it back." It whispered.
By the fifth night, I was really terrified that I couldn't sleep alone anymore. I ended up in my friend's apartment. Moses didn't ask any questions and I didn't let the cat out of the bag.
By the next weekend, I visited the terminal again. I tried describing the boy to the old janitor with the bent back and silver beard.
He stopped sweeping and asked. "What was his name?"
"Michael," I replied. "That was the name on the ticket."
The janitor looked at me long. "Then you took more than a ride, boy. You took his name out of the world."
I was left visibly shaken by his words.
That night, I dreamed again. But this time, I followed him.
We stood at the edge of the Rice field. The bus wreckage lay smoking below. He turned to me, his face pale, his hollow eyes accusing.
“You weren’t meant to live,” he whispered. “I was.”
“I—I didn’t mean to take it!” I choked out. “I was late. It was a mistake.”
“You should have come back.”
Then he stepped forward, his burned hand touching my chest.
“You still can.”
I woke up gasping and more terrified than I had ever been all my life.
Heart racing, I reached out into my bag, searching for the old crumpled ticket — his ticket. I had left it in my bag since the incidence, even when I had no reason to.
When I found it, there was blood on the corner.... and in place of his name, was mine.
I couldn’t breathe. Was I taking his place? Was I going to die?
I was so scared.
The next morning, I called the office to report that I was sick and found my way to the address written on the ticket. It was an old house near the edge of town, with peeling white paint and a garden overgrown with weeds. An old woman answered the door, stooped and shaking.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I hesitated, my tongue glued to my mouth. “I think… I...think....I.... your son died on the bus three weeks ago.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as her knees buckled. “Michael!”
Tears filled her grieving eyes, pouring down in torrents.
Hers was pure, unimaginable grief.
“The bus company says he got on the wrong bus. They never found his body. Only... ashes. And his luggage."
I held out the ticket. “This was his.”
I told her everything. We sat in silence for a long time. She grieved, but she never blamed me for what happened.
Then she pulled out a small box and opened it. Inside were photos, letters. She brought out one torn open envelope, with a handwritten note.
“Dear Mama,
I bought a ticket for Route V15. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I’ve decided to leave this city and start afresh. You’ll be proud of me I promise. Love, Michael.”
I couldn’t stop crying.
Then I confessed everything, every moment, every haunting and how it had felt, since the incidence.
She didn’t say a word until I was done.
Then she asked, “Do you believe in setting things right?”
I nodded, so numb to speak.
She reached into a tattered handbag and handed me a thin silver chain with a charm, the Virgin Mary, her hands folded in prayer.
“This was his own, he loved wearing it since he was a child. But somehow, he forgot to take it with him. Wear it, to the place it ended. He’ll be waiting.”
That night, I borrowed Moses's car and drove to the Rice field, wearing his charm.
At the spot of the wreckage, my headlights flickered out.
The engine died.
I hugged myself tightly as I felt the chill in the air.
And I saw him.
Michael.
Standing by the edge, like before. But this time, he wasn't angry.... but his expression was that of regret.
“I wasn't always a good son, but I wanted to make it up to my Mama,” he said slowly, painfully . “Now, it's too late.”
He turned away, and began to walk into the fog.
I called after him, “Michael!”
He paused.
"Your Mama never stopped loving you and she says you were the best thing that ever happened to her, she was very proud of you."
And then…he smiled....And was gone.
I never had another dream after that.
The hauntings stopped.
But I never forgot.
Every year since then, on the day of the crash, I return to the Rice field, with a bouquet of flowers. For the stranger whose life gave mine a second chance.
All images are AI generated.
Thank you very much for your continuous support 🙏
