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Truth From the Bus Window By Sylva Nze Ifedigbo I go to work in a public commuter bus. It goes with that twice daily discomfort of dragging on in the traffic for hours, sitting until it hurt to sit, perspiring down to your inner wears, inhaling the air others had just exhaled, hissing, wishing, and enduring. But for me it not just about that. My twice in a day bus ride gives me that privilege to see, through the window of the bus, the faces of Nigeria, the daily struggle for survival, the pains, the hard work, the faith, the courage, the goodwill, the gimmicks, the rush, the Nigeria in us. From the window of the bus I see young men my age full of energy, in defiance to the sun overhead, shouting, screaming, and chasing after buses to sell such goods as apple and gala. I see the minors, children not long from wetting the bed, bare footed, strings of catarrh hanging down their nostrils, their eyes pleading as they look at you, their voice piercing through your conscience, asking you to take away the misery, by parting with N10 for a sachet of pure water. From the window of the bus I see beggars, children leading aged bent over parents by the stick, joggling coins in a worn aluminum plate, the sound steering you, making you look not at the beggar, but the helplessness in his eyes. You stare on, pushing away that silent urge to reach for that worn N10 in your breast pocket. He joggles the coin again, his eye darting around the bus. He moves on to the next window, hoping and wishing. From the window of the bus I see cars; the type comedians insist should be called automobiles. Sleek, elegant, amazing. They don’t spend much time beside the bus in the hold up; they are fast and seem to melt through. But they stay long enough for you to notice that the glasses are wound up, that the air condition is on, that the dashboard looks like a large stereo system, that the person at the steering is a human being, a fellow Nigerian, you remember that some fingers are more equal than others. You have always been too carried away to notice the poetry in the shout of the bus conductors, the rhyme, the repetitions, the verses. I hear it from the window of the bus. I play the lines repeatedly in my head Wuse-Berger-Gwarimpa- Galadima. I am amused by the constant warning “Hold your change o!” I am offended by his foul language. I am impressed at his mathematical prowess and his sharp memory. He is considered illiterate because he doesn’t speak the English language yet he knows how much to give back as change and doesn’t forget who has not paid him. From the window of the bus I see many car stickers, from the My God is able on the green buses, to the I am a winner on the sleek cars. I see religion on display, prayer beads handing down the inner rear view mirror, picture of clerics adorning the edges of windscreens. I see the foot ball fanatism, the symbols that announce our allegiance to various European clubs. I see no Enyimba or Kano Pillars. I see blue, red and dark red. I see the traffic officers looking tired. I notice that their yellow shirts and their black shoes are perhaps more tired than themselves. I see the unsmiling faces of vehicle inspection officers (VIO); I notice the bus driver’s anxiety as he nears them. I see drivers hurriedly put on their set belt and I know immediately that the Road Safety men are in front. I see them unhook again as soon as they drive past the officers in brown. The cars with siren do not tag along with us on the traffic. They speed past on the other lane. I see a Police pickup, driving against traffic. I wonder what the law says about that. I see cars parked in the middle of the road, the owners arguing, pointing fingers at each others face, insisting the other was a lousy driver, that he bought his license, that he must pay for the dent on the car. I see pot-holes and craters on the road. My head bumps against the roof of the bus as we sink into one. I hear fellow commuters hiss while some curse the Government. I wonder why our curses don’t affect them. The wind blowing against my face from the window of the bus is hot and dusty. Sometimes it rains and the wind is moist and cold. The bus feels like a confinement, like you have been taken hostage. You long for your bus stop, it feels so long off. You stick your hand out of the window and you feel the breeze against your hand. It reminds me that I am alive. That I can still hope. Suddenly you realize that it is not the bus but the country that had taken you hostage. You realize that you really don’t want to alight from the bus because at home there wouldn’t be light and that at the office you are still owed for two months. You look again from yourself, from your ironed shirt tucked into equally ironed trousers, to the boys in worn shirts chasing after buses and screaming “Cold Vigu” to the beggar joggling coins, to the little girl with the soiled nose, to the man in the sleek car, to the tired traffic man and you come to that realization that there is hardly any difference between you, that you are all hostages. Sylva Nze Ifedigbo |