"The closer we come, the more similar we seem to become." -LFA 102
The driver soon sank into his seat after taking half of eternity to load up, have us fill some form and settle the Agberos. I stretched my leg further under the seat in front for the best comfort I could get.
We are on the move.
A man from the second seat is praying for us. He just said, we rebuke every blood sucking spirit on the way" and everyone just screamed, "Amen!". It sounded louder than when he was giving thanks. My Amen is not as loud. Mama is checking my lips to see if I'm responding at all. She might be thinking I'm an Ogbanje.
But I once read that such prayers are like using God. That we don't have to scream at Him to help clear the road if we truly have a relationship with Him and believe in His presence within and with us. So I know I carry God and He can never die, let alone by accident.
However, this man just said "in Jesus name I pray" and my Amen is the loudest. Everyone just turned to see whose voice it is. I love this smile on Mama's face. It sounds like, "that's good my son". I love the one on my face more, it sounds like, "tshebi that's what you want? at least you now know I'm not an Ogbanje"
...
I just woke this man beside me the 19th time. He's practically sleeping on my chest. Thank God I'm a boy. "We are now in Ore", Mama just told me.. Or no!. She didn't *told me(lol). I saw a church signpost with an address that ended with Ore, Ondo State. so I asked her as if the signpost could be wrong. She is glad at my interest in sightseeing. I can see it in the light in her eyes as she replied, "yes my son. The driver is good. We should get to Benin before 3. My legs want to be free".
People tend to talk more when you make them feel you're ignorant. In this moment, I think I am- I need to be empty to get anything worthwhile out of this journey. I wish I was closer to the window. But the little I can watch outstretching my neck, I'll watch.
I'm trying to see a gradual transition. Watching the trees running by, the sky, even the color of the ground to suddenly see something different. Something like a red Palm-tree, a yellow sun in the sky or blue ground so I can know we are now somewhere in the South-East. I was trying to get what makes us different- Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa. But nothing so obvious.
...
It's some minutes to 3pm, Our hefty driver just screeched the bus to an halt in a feeling station. He just jumped down his seat and unplugged his key. I'm confused. But everyone is coming down so I'm following suit. Oh! we are in Benin. Mama said it. And it's only 8 minutes to 3. I can imagine how often she plies this route.
I'm waiting for her to alight too. I want to tell her her prediction was right. I want to see that smile in her eyes as she says "I told you?". I want her to feel intelligent. She's thirsty. I am too. She unwraps a note of N100 and hands me to get her five sachets of water. I decline, "never mind Mama. I'll get yours with mine". She's smiling, "thank you my son" and says something sweet in Igbo"
I need to get something to eat. I'm famishing. I'm watching the trays of foods displayed beside the filling station. Plantain chips is familiar. Many foods are not ( I get this is where our difference comes in). But I don't like the crunchy dried-yellow plantain chips, I love the soft burnt one.
Oh that woman has something more familiar. Wow! So they sell *boli here too. I'm bargaining the price while calling my people. I smile and end the call.
"Eh ehn... Ma, how "do you sell?"
"It's Fif... Hundred hundred Naira my son"
Ah ahn.. no now." I look more closely. The plantains are are looking so strong, 'Don't worry ma", I finally say. "I don't like these strong types"
She's angry. I can see it in her eyes.
And just now I realize I'm in Benin- The almighty town where comedians say everybody flies in the day. I return to say I'm sorry and see a smile on her face. I smile too and laugh it away.
*Boli- raosted planitain
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