The crowd, restless and growing in size, milled around the bus, whose red window blinds were drawn. Its dark three-tone facade was a dying glow as the harmattan haze began to shut out the sun even before it dropped below the horizon. The motor park was ringed by a semicircle of stores and restaurants; some of them were running out of provisions, and others had simply closed for fear of looting. Some travelers sat, gloomy and tired, on their verandas, too discouraged or hungry to wait near the bus. The park was unpaved and uneven, the wide potholes as sandy as the bed of a seasonal river in the dry months.
Beyond this, the savannah, clothed in the reddish harmattan dust, extended in every direction, like an endless ocean, with Lupa City and a few villages and towns dotting it like little islands. Though the savannah had a few tall evergreen trees, for the most part it was full of short, stout trees. And even those stood far apart, as if they hated each other’s company. Their leaves gone, the branches pointed at the sky like a thousand crooked fingers. Between the trees were shrubs and grass that had been singed by the dry season, and dark expanses of scorched undergrowth, where villagers had undertaken their annual bush-burning craze.
Jubril had tried to take in the Babel of languages that were being spoken at the motor park. He had heard many languages being spoken in one place before, but today they only emphasized his estrangement from the group. Somehow, even when he knew that there were no Hausa-Fulani in the park and that no Hausa would be spoken, he still yearned for it. He listened hard, longing to hear it as he did at Bawara Market in Khamfi, where the more than two hundred languages of his country seemed represented. But here he could mainly hear the Ibo language because of the many Ibos fleeing to their homes in the southeast. He could also hear the minority languages of the delta tribes and even those of the northern minorities, who were retreating to whatever places had been their ancestral homes. Those who spoke English did so with accents peculiar to their tribes—all of them unlike Jubril’s accent. The more he paid attention to the noisy crowd, the more convinced he became that the best way to disguise himself was to speak as little as possible.
To ease his feelings of estrangement, he dug into his bag and pulled out the piece of paper on which had been written the name of the village in the delta where his father was born. He read the name silently many times. He knew that if he had to say it out loud, his accent would betray him, which was why he got Mallam Abdullahi, the Good Samaritan who helped him make this trip, to write it out clearly for him.
Many years back, Jubril’s mother, as if goaded by some uncanny ability to read the future, had insisted, against Jubril’s protestations, that his father came from an oil-producing village in the delta region and that his father’s relatives would always protect him. Even now he knew nothing about the place. But with this paper, he felt like one on the verge of discovering something very important, something that could give him the identity his troubled nation had failed to provide. This feeling of adventure would have been enough for his mind to handle in peaceful times, but during this flight it felt like an added burden. He wished he had traveled there before now.
All day he had pined for the bus’s departure, like a prisoner anticipating his release from jail. He had waited with the crowd, aware that he was not one of them, knowing that he was an easy target for the sporadic violence that had seized the land, that a simple thing like his accent could give him away. He was one of those who had lost their families in the Sharia crisis in Khamfi. And many times during this journey the weight of the tragedy had shocked him out of proper recollection of the events that had precipitated it. He knew this bus was his only way to safety and had tried everything to forget what had happened to him, including the two-day hunger that was sinking its jaws into his stomach. Yet now and then, his despair broke through his control, and he bit his thin dry lips. Sometimes, in a last-ditch effort to suppress his tears, he shut his eyes tight.
Though he was exhausted, he hovered around the bus, not wanting to sit on the verandas of the stores and restaurants, as many of his compatriots were doing, or even on the bare earth, succumbing to fatigue. To him, his fellow travelers looked like drowning men, grabbing on to whatever they could before they were swept away by the crisis that had overtaken their country. Some were with their children and spouses. Some had lost everything, even their sanity.
FOR THE FIRST TIME in Jubril’s life, it did not infuriate him that there were women all over the place. He had been in the crowd a long time before he became aware, not just of them, but of the fact that he did not react to them in any way. Only three days before, this would not have been possible. He would have preferred to trek a thousand miles on foot rather than sit in the same vehicle as a woman. In his part of Khamfi it was not even permissible for a man to give his wife, daughter, or sister a ride on his okada or bicycle. Now it felt as if he were experiencing the immediacy of these women in a dream, one in which he could commit any sin and not be held accountable by his conscience or the hisbah, the Sharia police.
Suddenly, it seemed the women were everywhere. Because of the crowd, some were pressing in on him. Many of them wore trousers and shorts, and some did not cover their heads. The voices of the younger girls floated in the harmattan wind like a strange, sweet melody.
Then his dispassionate attitude toward these Christian women shifted to humor, then irony. To Jubril, they looked funny in their makeup and tight-fitting trousers. He caught himself thinking about all the hijab and niqab and abaya that would be needed to cover them and shrugged. He imagined himself laughing at them, and a tinge of good feeling came over him, not so much from the sight of the women but because he had reacted well to the situation and did not give himself away. He became more certain that he could survive this journey, if only he could maintain his ability to secretly poke fun at some of the inconveniences. This novelty provided his first lighthearted moment since his flight from Khamfi, a real relief from the angst that had fretted his soul.
He soaked up this antidote with every pore of his body, scanning the crowd with quick darting eyes, as if he needed to see more women and girls to be happy or to be sure of a safe trip. Soon he did not have to fight back tears. He wanted to laugh out loud like a madman, but he controlled himself. If these Christians asked him why he was laughing, what would he say? No, haba, he was not going to lose control of himself because of women. He thought it would be awful if, after having disguised himself successfully and survived the journey thus far, he let a bunch of helldestined women do him in. He prayed that when push came to shove Allah would give him the grace to see the lifestyles that challenged him as laughable rather than as sources of irritation and temptation.
Jubril was still watching the women, paying special attention to the myriad hairdos, when the bus conductors invited the passengers to board. Everybody, those with tickets and those without, swooped to the doors. Jubril took his time getting to the door and entering the vehicle. But, jostling down the aisle, he discovered that an old man had taken his seat, which was in the last quarter of the bus.
“Good evening, sa,” Jubril whispered to him, covering his mouth with his hand to change his accent.
“What’s the problem?” replied Chief Okpoko Ukongo.