The Last Bus to Aba

*1. The Ticket*  
Ikenna had exactly 4,300 naira and a Nokia torch phone. Both were supposed to get him to Aba before sunrise. His sister was getting married at 10 a.m., and if he missed it, his mother would disown him in front of the entire village. Not metaphorically. She would actually stand up during the reception and say it. 

The last bus to Aba left Ojota Park at 11:45 p.m. It was 11:39. 

He ran past the suya smoke and the preachers with megaphones, shoving his bag under his arm. The ticket seller was half asleep. 

“One to Aba!” Ikenna slapped the money down. 

The man didn’t even look up. He tore a ticket, stamped it, and pointed with his chin. “That one. Driver dey vex.” 

*2. The Bus*  
The bus was a retired school bus painted the color of dried blood. It had JESUS IS MY DRIVER in reflective letters on the back window. Inside, it smelled like wet seats, fuel, and somebody’s strong perfume. 

Twelve passengers. All asleep except one: a woman in front holding a live chicken in a basket. The chicken was also asleep. 

Ikenna took the window seat near the back. The engine turned over with a sound like a coughing lion. 11:46 p.m. They were moving. 

He texted his sister: _On the way. Don’t let mama start without me._ 

*3. The Stop*  
At 1:20 a.m., somewhere after Ore, the driver pulled over. No lights. No gas station. Just bush and darkness. 

“Everybody out,” the driver said. He was a small man with a voice too big for his body. “Police checkpoint ahead. If you get anything wey go bring problem, drop am here. I no dey go cell for una.” 

Nobody moved. 

The driver sighed, opened his door, and stepped into the dark. “Five minutes. If una like, sleep.” 

Ikenna didn’t like it, but he needed to pee. He followed two other men into the bush. 

When they came back, the bus was gone. 

*4. The Problem*  
Just… gone. No tail lights. No engine. The road was empty in both directions. The chicken woman was standing there with her basket, looking like she’d expected this all along. 

“Did you see…?” Ikenna started. 

“Driver say police,” she said calmly. “Driver lie. That man no be driver.” 

“What?” 

She shifted the basket. The chicken woke up and glared at him. “Last month, same thing. Bus go, people waka. Then motor come. Not police. You understand?” 

Ikenna understood. He’d read the stories. He felt his 4,300 naira turn to ice in his pocket. 

The other two men started walking fast down the road. One was already running. 

“Don’t,” the chicken woman said. “Road no safe. Come.” 

She turned and walked into the bush. 

*5. The House*  
There was a house. It shouldn’t have been there. One minute it was trees, the next it was a bungalow with a blue door and a generator humming low. A single bulb burned over the door. 

Inside smelled like stew and old books. A man in a singlet and glasses was frying plantain. He looked up, unsurprised. 

“More?” he said to the woman. 

“One,” she said. “This one get wedding.” 

The man pointed at Ikenna with his spatula. “You get phone?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Give.” 

Ikenna handed over the Nokia. The man pulled out the battery, then the SIM, then dropped all three pieces into a cup of water on the table. 

“Tracking,” he said, like that explained it. “You eat?” 

*6. The Wait*  
They ate. Rice, stew, fried plantain, and cold water from a clay pot. The chicken got rice too. No one explained anything. At 3:10 a.m., the generator coughed and died. 

The man lit a candle. In the new shadows, he finally spoke. 

“The bus is bait. Driver works with the road boys. They take your things, sometimes worse. We watch the road on nights with no moon. When we see the school bus, we wait here.” 

“Why?” Ikenna asked. 

The woman answered. “Because nobody else dey.” 

At 4:00 a.m., there was a knock. Three times, then two. The man opened the door. 

It was the real driver. Taller, older, wearing a FRSC vest. Behind him was an actual bus, park lights on, engine running. 

“Anybody remain?” the real driver asked. 

“Just one,” the man said. “He dey go Aba.” 

*7. The Arrival*  
Ikenna got to Aba at 8:17 a.m. The real bus was slow but alive. The driver gave him his SIM card back, dried off with a handkerchief. “Your people dey call.” 

He had 14 missed calls. 

He made it to the church at 9:52. His mother saw him from the aisle and stopped arranging flowers. She didn’t disown him. She just walked over and fixed his collar. 

“You dey late,” she said. 

“The road,” Ikenna said. 

His mother looked at him, then at the chicken feather stuck to his sleeve. She plucked it off and flicked it away. 

“I know the road,” she said. “Your father’s brother drives the night bus too. The real one. He told me to check your ticket. If it no say ‘God’s Own Lines’ for the corner, no enter.” 

Ikenna checked the crumpled ticket in his pocket. It didn’t. 

His sister got married. The jollof was good. Nobody mentioned the feather. 

*8. The After*  
Ikenna still takes night buses. But now he checks the corner of the ticket first. And if he ever sees a school bus with JESUS IS MY DRIVER on the back, he walks to the next park. 

Sometimes, when there’s no moon, he thinks he smells stew and hears a generator. But he never goes into the bush again. 

Some roads, you only get rescued from once. 

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Let me know when you’re ready for the next one.