Homecoming
The boy sat in a slightly uncomfortable position. Even though he had given up his seat earlier to the heavyset boy beside him, he didn’t feel bad about it. His right leg was half-stretched out under the dashboard of the bus and his left leg was bent at the knee, his thigh at a ninety degree angle to his calf. His heel, placed on the sloping surface under the seat was the main source of his discomfort. But he did not mind at all. He had endured more awkward positions on far longer journeys than the one he was currently on.
The tall, plump boy on his right was dozing in an irregular position, with his arms folded on his lap and his head hanging in front of him. “Bad neck pain tomorrow…” the boy thought to himself and turned to face the road ahead, his attention drawn by what appeared to be a flashlight being rapidly turned on and off and bobbing up and down repeatedly. The driver, sitting to the boy’s left sighed deeply as he slowed the bus down. “…’nother checkpoint”, he grumbled.
Half-lifting himself off his seat, he cocked his head to the side as he fished around in his back pocket for his wallet. This position momentarily put the right side of his face under direct moonlight and threw his visage into sharp relief. The boy, unable to hold it back, let out a barely audible gasp. Half of the right side of the driver’s face was a tapestry of scars. Fire? Hot metal? Acid? The boy couldn’t tell, but whenever the light hit the driver’s face as it just did, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was something mesmerising in the way the skin was distorted, but oddly smooth — like wax that was still in the process of melting.
The driver laid his hands on his wallet and pulled it out. he sank back into his seat and his face was thrown back into darkness. Pulling his gaze forward into the now-obvious flashlight held by a soldier some metres ahead, the boy reached up above the rearview mirror, fumbled a bit and the inner light clicked on. With one hand on the wheel and the other handling his wallet, the driver peeked down, selected a fifty naira note from neatly arranged wad of cash in his wallet and gripped it, letting the wallet fall back to his lap. The bus pulled up beside the soldier and the deep, rasping voice of the driver cut through the cold, night air. “Evny, officer” he said as he stretched out his left arm, the bill protruding slightly from his balled up fist. The “officer”, a young, handsome soldier, wearing a large, rubber windbreaker — protection from the rain which had stopped falling some minutes ago — slowly stretched out his hand for the bill, all the while scrutinising the driver, a stoic look on his face. The boy looked down — he always felt nervous when soldiers stared like that.
He pressed a button on his phone and the screen lit up to show a grand-looking man, a long red cap on his head, wearing a heavy caftan of jet-black velvet, embroidered with golden lions. There was a lot of smoke which obscured the view from his waist down, but one could see that he was leaning towards the viewer — in this case, the photographer — , his left arm half-raised in a salute. The ceremonial fan the man was holding bore the legend “Eziokwu bu ndu 1”. Behind the man, there was a masquerade — at least ten-feet tall and round, tilted to the side in what was obviously a dance, long strips of beautiful cloth spinning in every direction.
The wallpaper reminded the boy of the call he had received just before dawn that day. His father’s voice, choked with grief as he spoke, with several pauses to take deep breaths. He remembered how his heart had dropped into his stomach, how — after saying goodbye , he had fumbled with his phone, dropping it twice before his shaking hands could end the call.
The screen went off and the boy remembered that he had forgotten to check the time. He pressed the button again and the screen lit up once more. 22:38. The boy sighed and dropped the phone back on his lap. At the same time, the driver finished his forced banter with the soldier and slowly pulled away from the checkpoint, gathering speed quickly as he went. “6 checkpoints down, Lord knows how many more to go”. He sighed again and settled back into his seat. It was going to be a long night.
