The Land Of The Rising Sun: Chapter 6 The Road Home.

CHAPTER SIX The Road Home The following morning arrived quietly. A rooster crowed somewhere beyond the hotel, followed by the scraping of wooden stalls being opened for business. I had slept, but not well. The events of the previous day replayed themselves in my mind—the arguments on the bus, the uncertainty hanging over the country, and the strange man who had chosen a chair over the comfort of a bed. I sat up. The chair was empty. For a brief moment, I thought he had left without saying goodbye. I hurried outside. There he was, standing beside the bus with the driver while a mechanic tightened one of the rear tyres. For reasons I couldn't explain, I felt relieved. When he noticed me, he nodded. "Good morning." "You left the room." "I didn't want to wake you." I looked at him for a moment before replying quietly, "You could have." A faint smile appeared on his face. "I wasn't sure you'd appreciate that." I surprised myself by laughing. Perhaps he was beginning to understand me. Or perhaps I was beginning to understand him. Passengers gradually returned to the bus carrying roasted groundnuts, loaves of bread and enamel cups of hot tea bought from roadside vendors. The driver clapped his hands. "Everyone inside! We leave now!" The engine coughed to life. This time, there was no argument over seats. I found myself beside Ndubuisi once again. For several miles, neither of us spoke. The silence no longer felt awkward. Outside, villages drifted past like scenes from a dream. Children chased one another barefoot across dusty compounds. Women balanced baskets on their heads. Farmers disappeared into fields already glowing beneath the morning sun. Nigeria looked peaceful. Too peaceful. "You've been staring outside since we left," Ndubuisi said. "I keep wondering if all this will still look the same next year." He followed my gaze. "I hope it will." "You don't sound convinced." "I've learnt that hope and certainty are not the same thing." I rested my head against the window. "You always talk like a man twice your age." He smiled. "My mother says the same thing." "Then your mother must be a wise woman." He chuckled softly. "You'd get along with her." "You have a big family?" "Two younger sisters." "And your parents?" "They're in the East." His answer was brief, but the warmth in his voice told me everything. "What about you?" he asked. "My parents live in Ubakala." "Brothers?" "None." "Sisters?" "One." He nodded. "I suppose they'll be happy you're coming home." "They'll probably be angry first." "Why?" "I accepted work in the North when everyone told me not to." "And do you regret it?" I thought carefully before answering. "No." "Why not?" "Because I learnt that people are more complicated than tribes." For the first time since we'd met, he looked genuinely impressed. "That's a journalist's answer." "It should be." I smiled proudly. "I intend to become one." "I don't doubt it." The bus slowed near a roadside market. Women rushed forward carrying trays of oranges, kola nuts, roasted groundnuts and glass bottles of soft drinks. The conductor shouted prices through the window while passengers bargained without leaving their seats. An elderly woman sitting behind us bought roasted corn. She broke it in two and offered one half to me. I thanked her. Without thinking, I snapped the cob into two again and handed the larger piece to Ndubuisi. He hesitated. "I can buy mine." "I know." "Then why give me yours?" "Because my mother says food tastes better when it's shared." He accepted it slowly. "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet," I teased. "Taste it first." He took a bite. For the first time since we met... Ndubuisi laughed. Not the polite smile I had grown used to. A real laugh. The passengers around us turned briefly before returning to their conversations. "I've been trying to make you laugh since yesterday," I said. "You finally succeeded." "I'll remember this victory." "You'll call this a victory?" "Oh yes." He shook his head, still smiling. "It seems I underestimated you." "You did." The conversations inside the bus gradually faded as familiar landmarks began to appear. Every mile brought us closer to home. Every mile also brought us closer to a future none of us could see. By late afternoon, the bus finally approached Umuahia. The conductor rose from his seat and struck the side of the bus twice. "Umuahia! Anybody coming down, get ready!" Passengers reached for their bags. The once lively conversations gave way to the rustling of wrappers and the scraping of luggage from the overhead racks. I held my handbag tightly. "This is my stop," I said. Ndubuisi looked at me before nodding. "So... we've finally reached home." "Almost," I replied. "Ubakala is still a short journey from here." The bus slowed to a halt. Outside, relatives hurried towards arriving passengers, embracing loved ones they had not seen for months. I stood and adjusted my wrapper. For a brief moment, neither of us spoke. It felt strange. Just yesterday, he had been a complete stranger. Now, saying goodbye felt unexpectedly difficult. "It was nice meeting you, Amaka," he said at last. "The feeling is mutual." I stretched out my hand. He looked at it for a second before taking it. His grip was firm but gentle. "Safe journey to Ubakala." "Thank you." He hesitated. "When you become a journalist..." I looked at him. "...write stories that make people understand one another." I smiled. "I'll remember that." "I'm sure you will." The conductor blew his whistle impatiently. I stepped down from the bus. Before walking away, I turned back. Ndubuisi was still seated by the window. He raised his hand slightly. I returned the gesture. Moments later, the bus pulled away, disappearing into a cloud of red dust. I watched until it became nothing more than a speck on the road. Then I adjusted my handbag and began the short journey to Ubakala. At the time, I believed I had simply said goodbye to a fellow traveller. I had no idea... ...that fate had only postponed our next meeting.

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