The Land Of The Rising Sun CHAPTER FIVE:Strangers Under One Roof

CHAPTER FIVE:Strangers Under One Roof The argument on the bus finally died down as darkness swallowed the highway. The driver gradually brought the bus to a halt. "We're not moving again tonight," he announced. "The road ahead isn't safe." A wave of groans swept through the passengers. Some cursed under their breath. Others climbed down to stretch their aching legs, while a few hurried towards the only hotel in sight, hoping to secure a room before it was too late. I picked up my travelling bag and followed them. The town was unfamiliar. The streets were quiet. Fear seemed to hang in the air. By the time I reached the reception desk, every room had been taken. Every room except one. "It has already been booked," the receptionist said. "Unless the gentleman agrees to share." I turned. It was the quiet man from the bus. Ndubuisi. He looked at me, then at the receptionist. "If she doesn't mind," he said calmly, "she can take the room. I'll sleep in the chair." I frowned. "You don't even know me." A faint smile appeared on his face. "And you don't know me either." There was no pride left in me. Only exhaustion. After a moment's hesitation, I nodded. The room was small. One bed. One wooden chair. One tiny window overlooking the dusty street. Without saying another word, Ndubuisi placed his bag on the floor and dragged the chair towards the window. "You can have the bed," he said. "What about you?" "I've slept in worse places." His answer irritated me. He spoke as though hardship was ordinary. "Thank you," I muttered. "For what?" "For reminding me that decent strangers still exist." He smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile. Trying to break the silence, I asked, "Why didn't you say anything on the bus?" He looked out of the window before answering. "Because arguments rarely change people's minds." I folded my arms. "Maybe." "But silence has never changed a country either." For the first time, he turned fully towards me. "No," he replied quietly. "But understanding might." His answer caught me off guard. "So you just let everyone shout?" "I let everyone speak." "You think you're wiser than the rest of us?" "No." "Then why keep quiet?" He rested against the window. "My father used to say that when a house is on fire, shouting about who lit the match won't put it out." For the first time that day... I had no reply. Silence settled between us. Outside, distant voices echoed through the streets. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackled to life. The announcer's voice was tense. More violence. More uncertainty. More families abandoning their homes. I slowly walked towards the window. "So..." I asked quietly. "Do you think things will get better?" Ndubuisi remained silent for a long moment. His eyes never left the dark road outside. Finally, he spoke. "I think..." He paused. "...we're living through the last days of the Nigeria we once knew." A chill ran down my spine. At the time, I dismissed his words as needless pessimism. Years later, as I stood over the lifeless body of my little boy, I finally understood what Ndubuisi had seen that night. By then... It was already too late.

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